


"Faded Memories"

by SarahLannister



Series: Outtakes, Unused & Alternate Takes- Fandom Specific [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alistair Is Blissfully Ignorant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Old Fanfic Saved From Livejournal, Racist Language (Anti-Elf Sentiment), Smoll Angry Mage, Swearing, Teenage Drama, This Won't Be Updated Further, mildly sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24457111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahLannister/pseuds/SarahLannister
Summary: Alistair and Shayla are two Chantry brats against the world. Can their friendship survive them being torn apart by the Circle and Templar training?
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Outtakes, Unused & Alternate Takes- Fandom Specific [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1185161
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note** : Here's another old fanfic from my days as a Dragon Age Origins nerd. It's far from finished but I felt it was good enough to put up here if anyone fancies taking a gander. I always loved the idea of Alistair falling in love with a mage. Alas, due to personal circumstances, the story ends after the tenth chapter and I've been out of the fandom so long that I have no idea how to pick it back up again. 
> 
> Just bare that in mind as you read, okay?
> 
> Likes, bookmarks, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.
> 
> -SARAH

**CHAPTER ONE**

  
"Alistair! You disgusting boy! Wipe the filth off your pants this instant!"   
  
Jumping at the shrill tone of the Kitchen Mother's voice, the unkempt young boy quickly sprang to his feet, eyes wide as saucers as he caught the unscrupulous glare of the elderly woman. He gulped back a lump in his throat, trying not to show the fear on his dirt-encrusted face.   
  
The woman charged with keeping the scullery maids in check, she was a fearsome sight to behold-all sharp angles and severity in an ill-fitted, lumpy robe of brown cotton that hung over her gaunt frame.   
  
As she glared at her charge with scorn in her beady grey eyes, Alistair braced himself for the ear bashing he was surely in for. Wasting no time, he quickly brushed away the pale strands of straw and wheat-grain from his rough burlap britches, making sure to stand up straight so as not to incur the fearsome sting of her cane.   
  
For whatever reason, the Kitchen Mother had taken to being exceptionally cruel in her torture over the last number of weeks. Instead of her standard fare of swiping her cane against the back of his knees whenever she felt he was lacking posture, she had now taken to yanking him around by the hair without a moment's notice. He shuddered at the thought, unconsciously reaching to rub a bald patch at the base of his skull.   
  
"Afternoon, milady..." he simpered, forcing himself to flash her a toothy grin. "...How may I be of service?"   
  
She sniffed at this, the corners of her mouth curling into a sneer.   
  
"You are absolutely _filthy!_ Honestly, boy! Do you actually roll around in Mabari shit or is the smell simply part of your apparent inbreeding?"    
  
Alistair forced back a low groan, his fists clenching slightly at his side as he let the barbed insults slide over his head. There wasn't much good in defending himself for any back talk would be met with a beating. Instead, he clenched his jaw tightly, desperate to keep the smile from fading from his face.   
  
"Sorry, milady! I've just finished mucking out the kennels. I haven't had a spare moment to bathe-" the young boy started only to emit a loud yelp of alarm as one gnarled, willowy hand clenched around the unkempt strands of dirty blonde that fell around his face.   
  
"The Arl requests your presence. I doubt he'd appreciate you putting him off his breakfast." the Kitchen Mother grumbled darkly as she dragged the squirming boy out of the spacious canteen and into the courtyard.    
  
Against a wall lost behind a leafy veil of creeping vines, half of an old Dwarvian wine vat sat baking in the heat of the September morning. The severe-looking woman wasted no time in dragging him to the bath, shoving him roughly against it and instructing him to strip.   
  
Alistair sighed deeply, tears stinging at his eyes from where several strands of hair had parted his scalp in the struggle. Still, there was no use in protesting and as he pulled the crude piece of rope holding his ragged trousers to his skinny waist, he was all too aware of the woman's beady, judgemental eyes scrutinizing his every move.    
Without a word, he climbed into the bath, hissing low through his teeth as the icy water stung at the various cuts, scrapes and welts peppering his gaunt frame. He washed quickly, yelping every so often as the rough sponge scrubbed over a sensitive patch of bruised skin.    
  
Clearly unimpressed by the boy's efforts, the Kitchen Mother soon took it upon herself to take the sponge from him and gave Alistair an all too literal scrubbing.   
  
"Honestly! Ten years old and still incapable of basic hygiene techniques! Why Arl Eamon ever bothered to waste his time on you, I'll never know!" the woman hissed through her teeth, her fingernails clawing at the boy's scalp as she struggled to untangle the knots in his dishevelled mop of hair.   
  
"I'm sure he has his reasons-AHH!" Alistair gasped in pain, clenching his eyes shut as she chuffed him upside the head for speaking back.   
  
"Hmph. Not that I care to know them. Maker, Alistair! Why on earth do you persist on wearing such an impossible haircut! Honestly, you look like a particularly ugly girl..." She gave a forceful tug at his scalp to emphasize her point before sighing in exasperation and letting the strands fall past the boy's jaw.    
  
At this stage, Alistair was fighting back the familiar urge to slap her across the face but as always, he bit back his anger, stewing in silence as she continued to berate him whilst she roughly dried him with an old blanket.    
  
Once she was thoroughly satisfied he was dry, she rose from where she'd knelt before him and flung a heavy pile of clothing at his head.    
  
Catching them awkwardly, the young boy glared at her with all the contempt he could muster as she swiftly parted, leaving him standing naked in the stone courtyard and contending with the ill disguised giggles of the scullery maids.    
  
Cheeks burning with humiliation, he quickly ran under the eaves of one of the horse stables, thankful for the heavy shade that shielded him both from the heat and prying eyes. Huddled against one of the heavy stone columns, he unfolded the pile of clothing in his arms, wasting no time in pulling on his trousers.    
  
As the fabric slid over his freshly scrubbed skin, he was startled to find it was made of a much softer material that he'd previously been used to.    
  
Cotton probably, or maybe even wool-blend.    
  
Whatever the material, it was a great deal more comfortable than the itchy burlap britches he'd worn for most of his young life. Much more fancy too, with a light blue pattern of check over a darker blue background. Intrigued, he moved to unfold the accompanying shirt only to gasp in surprise as his fingers brushed something cold and smooth.    
  
Holding the item up to the light, Alistair sucked in a breath, eyes widening as he marvelled over the exquisite item in his hands.    
  
It was a fresh new tunic, fashioned from thousands of the tiniest links of chain mail he'd ever seen. So small and intricately woven were the little silver links that the garment felt more like one made from the finest Orlasian silk.    
  
Long sleeves flared out from the shoulders, made of a stiff but light fabric he was unfamiliar with and colored in the same light blue as the check pattern on his trousers. All along the seams, the tunic was embellished with alternating gold chain-mail and silk thread and as he stood basking in the fantastic craftsmanship, it sparkled delicately in the morning sun.    
  
"Maker's breath...!" he whispered breathlessly, his fingers carefully tracing the glimmering gold seams.    
  
  
"So you like it, then?"    
  
The sound of Arl Eamon's voice sent such a shock rippling up Alistair's spine that he could only cry out in alarm, stumbling backwards as he jumped. A pair of firm but gentle hands rested on his bare shoulders, catching him before he fell. Gulping in air, the young boy glanced up, met with a pair of kind brown eyes set among a face that was weathered by a lifetime of hardship.    
  
The Arl smiled fondly, spinning the boy around and kneeling before him. Taking the tunic from his trembling hands, he gently slipped it over Alistair's torso, lightly smoothing out the occasional crease as he tweaked the fabric to  rest neatly against the boy's frame.    
  
"Mmm. It suits you." His voice was soft, filled with the same tone of affection a father might direct towards his favorite son. Hands resting lightly on Alistair's shoulders, he watched the boy's face closely, studying for any signs of a reaction.    
  
Despite knowing fully well he could drop his guard in the elder man's presence, Alistair kept his composure, his smile reserved and serene as he basked in the cool sensation of brand new chain-mail against his skin.    
"Like it? I love it!" he said quietly, averting his gaze shyly. "...It's-it's too pretty, Eamon... why on Earth would you give me something so lovely?"    
  
At this, the older man quirked an eyebrow, the corner of his lips curling into a bemused grin. "Don't tell me you've forgotten your own birthday, lad!" he chuckled heartily, moving to stand and playfully ruffled the young boy's hair.    
"Mercy, Alistair! How do you forget such a milestone as turning ten?"    
  
The young boy swallowed, absently brushing a moist strand of dirty-blonde hair behind his left ear. "...I've had a lot on my mind lately. Mainly trying to avoid the Kitchen Mother's cane..." he mumbled, brows knitting into a frown.    
  
Upon hearing this, the Arl sighed heavily, his smile fading as he placed a hand on the boy's back and urged him to walk alongside him.    
  
They strolled across the courtyard at a leisurely pace, heading through several stone archways as the Arl led the young boy towards the higher end of Redcliffe Castle.    
They walked in silence, Alistair bewildered by the Arl's sudden change in demeanor. He could see Eamon's face was drawn, heavy with some unspoken conflict as he avoided his questioning gaze.    
  
After what felt like an age wandering the halls without a word, they finally arrived outside the handsome oak door leading into the Arl's study.    
  
Alistair had only been in this part of the castle a handful of times but he was fully familiarized with the rich musky scent of the old, age-worn books that covered row after row of shelves along the walls.    
  
He smiled fondly as his eyes fell upon the worn red leather armchair sat in a corner by the chimney breast, memories from his childhood of resting upon Eamon's knee and being read to flooding his senses  and filling his head with pleasant thoughts. Without a care, he made a beeline for it, nestling himself into the oversized chair and savoring it's soft touch.    
  
"Alistair?" Eamon's voice was low as he closed the door behind him; "...Are you happy here?"    
  
"As happy as I can be, Eamon;" Alistair replied cheerily, an impish smile crossing his features. "...once I keep out of the Kitchen Mother's hair, at least!"    
  
At this, Arl Eamon sighed deeply.    
  
Crossing the room to the chimney breast, he pulled up a cow-hide pouffe to seat himself upon and sat before Alistair, his shoulders slumped forward as though he was carrying a heavy burden. He was quiet for a little while, occasionally rubbing his face with both hands as he seemingly struggled with his words. Finally, after what felt like hours, he exhaled slowly and tented his fingers, propping his elbows on his knees as he leaned in to meet Alistair's confused gaze.    
  
"The Kitchen Mother will not bother you again after tonight..."    
  
His voice was so quiet it was practically a whisper and as Alistair scooted forward, straining his ears to hear, he was startled to see what looked like the ghosts of tears forming in Arl Eamon's eyes.    
  
A knot of worry formed in his gut. The young boy had never seen that expression on the arl's face before. His face-normally jovial and gentle- was now tensed and drained of its color, appearing older and more wrinkled in the dim light from the wall-mounted torches. His jaw was set in a stern line and his lips were pulled into a thin line beneath the greying locks of his beard.    
  
"E-Eamon?" Alistair whispered, tensing. He did not like the atmosphere in the room. It was far too tense, too heavy for being in the company of the kindly old man.    
  
"As I mentioned before..." the Arl started, frowning darkly; "...today is your tenth birthday. It's high time for you to leave the castle... and my care."    
  
The knot in Alistair's gut tightened painfully, his jaw slackening.    
"W-what?! Why? Eamon, have I done something wrong?"    
  
"Not at all, my boy." the Arl inhaled an unsteady breath. "...It's just... Well, there are certain nasty rumours spreading around the village. About you. About your relationship to me. Your lineage."    
  
"What rumours? Arl Eamon, if this is about the time Chalk chewed through your good undergarments-" Alistair's voice fumbled, his face aghast as he struggled to deal with the arl's detached tone of voice.    
  
Eamon stared clean through him, his eyes heavy with remorse. He massaged his temples and emitted a low groan, as if in pain.    
"This has got nothing to do with the hounds, Alistair. Nor does it have to do with anything you've done wrong. It's just... myself and the Arlessa have decided that it would be far better if you went to live in the village Chantry."    
  
"But why?! Why the Chantry?"    
  
"You enjoy playing  _ Templars and Towers _ , don't you?"    
  
"Well, yeah...!" Alistair's voice was steadily rising in pitch as panic seized him but he managed to force back the worst of it, swallowing a heavy lump in his throat; "B-but what does that have to do with anything? Eamon, what's going on?! Why are you sending me away?"    
  
"I'm sorry, little one, but it's the best thing for you. It's already been arranged. You will be sent to the Chantry to begin your training this evening. There's nothing I can do to change this decision." The Arl choked on the last few words, coughing slightly as he swiftly rose from the pouffe.    
  
Staring aghast from his seat in the leather armchair, Alistair's lip quivered as he bit back the tears that threatened to spill down his face.    
  
This was such a bolt from the blue- one minute he had been mucking out the Mabari kennels knee-deep in putrid dog mess, the next he was being told he was no longer welcome at the castle that had been his home for the ten short years of his life. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Suddenly angered by the prospect of leaving the only home he'd ever known, the blonde boy sprung out of the chair, chasing after the Arl as the elder man moved towards the door.    
  
"Don't I get a say in this? Eamon!"    
  
"It has already been decided, Alistair. I don't like it any more than you do but it's out of my hands now..." the elder man's voice quivered. He was clearly just as shaken by this horrid turn of events as his young ward and was obviously struggling to compose himself as his hands shakily curled around the door handle.    
  
"B-But why? Why now? It's all so sudden! I-! It just doesn't make any sense!"    
  
At this, the Arl shook his head, turning and kneeling low to meet his ward's eye.    
  
"Alistair..." his voice was low, almost soothing even, though it masked untold pain; "Please know that you did nothing wrong. Sometimes-sometimes in life, one must do something they do not like in order to lead an easy life. There are tough choices in this world and I made this one for you. Please... please don't hate me for my actions. Someday you'll understand why I did this. Just know that everything I do... " he swallowed back a lump in his throat, voice breaking as his emotions ran high;    
  
"...I do it because I love you. You are like a son to me and it pains me to think of you coming to any harm, physical or otherwise. For that reason, I've had to make some tough choices.  Just know that I never regretted taking you into my home.. into my life..." The Arl trailed off, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.    
  
Composing himself, Arl Eamon stood up swiftly, turning sharply on his heels as he nearly wrenched the door clean off its hinges in a bid to escape the tense atmosphere.   
  
Alistair did not give chase.    
  
Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, shocked and numbed. Focusing only on the sound of the curt, hurried footsteps of the man he'd come to regard as a father as he sped down the corridor, a little piece of the young boy's heart broke with each retreating step until, unable to steel himself against the pain for a second longer, Alistair let out a long scream of anguish.   
  
A whole plethora of emotions surged through him: anger, rage, confusion, shock. Unable to control himself, his fingers curled around the silver locket hanging from his neck. With all the strength he could muster, he yanked it hard, breaking the delicate chain as he flung it with full force at the wall.    
  
Breaking down into a fit of hysterical sobbing,his body convulsing as he curled up on the cold, hard floor. For what felt like hours,he cried a turbulent river of tears until, body slackening and surrendering to the uncertain darkness.... the river ran dry.    
  
  
Quivering on the floor, he surrendered to the shadows and once more, he grew still...   


* * *

  
  
  
"Knife-ears! Knife-ears! Knife-ears!"   
  
"Shut up! Shut up or I'll melt that stupid grin clean off your face!"   
  
"Oooh, is the widdle elf-ling gonna cry?!"   
  
The young girl growled low in her throat, teeth gritted as her fingers clenched around the acid flask tied to her belt. Teeth baring in a display of aggression, she crouched low, poised to fight as the group of boys continued their relentless taunting. Head buzzing with rage, she yanked the flask free from the cord binding it to her waist and drew back her arm, hoisting it above her head.   
  
"Shut the  **fuck** up! I'm not joking!" she screamed furiously, eyes blazing dangerously. Her obvious agitation was a great source of amusement to the bullies and served only to further fuel their laughter as they continued to goad her, daring her to let go and hurl the vial of corrosive chemicals at their foul little party.    
  
"You don't have the guts!" the eldest boy teased, clucking his arms wildly; "Chicken! Bwuck bwuck bwuck!"   
  
Hot tears began to stream down the young girl's face as she struggled to suppress her agitation. Fingers tightening around the small vial in her hand, she steeled herself, drawing upon all the strength her petite frame could muster as she drew her hand back in preparation to strike.    
  
Just as she was set to send the acid bomb hurtling into the sizable group of taunting apprentice templars, however, a strong hand grabbed her wrist with force, startling her.   
  
"Calm yourself, girl. They're not worth the hassle." Sister Emile's voice was calm but stern, her face contorted in a frown as she gently lowered the young elf's arm.    
  
Frowning, the girl glanced pleadingly at the baying crowd, now hooting and high-fiving as they celebrated their dubious ribbing.   
  
"Come. Let's not waste our time engaging in petty insults and threats of horrific disfigurement." she proceeded to liberate the acid flask from the girl's hand before leading her to the dark stone steps of the Chantry's entrance. Seating herself upon the stone slabs, the ebony haired sister sighed deeply, patting the distressed young girl's hand in a bid to comfort her.   
  
"Care to tell me what that was all about?"   
  
"Same as always, Sister. Just the templars being jackasses..." the girl muttered, frowning darkly.   
  
"Shayla, how many times do I have to tell you to ignore them? Remember what I told you- sticks and stones." Sister Emile smiled gently, her hands reaching to tuck a wayward strand of claret-colored hair behind the youngster's left ear.    
Fingertips grazing the points of the elf's tell-tale ears, she shook her head, glancing with disdain at the group of boys across the yard, now taking to kicking a football around for amusement.   
  
"I know, Sister.. I know but it's hard to pretend it doesn't hurt." the red-head said quietly, her voice still edged with anger; "...Not my fault I'm the runt of the litter.."   
  
"You are  **not** a runt, Shay. There's no shame in being half Dalish. Some people are just raised without a sense of tact these days."   
  
"I suppose..." Shayla muttered, eyes averted to the pale robes that covered her knees, her brow furrowed darkly. At this, Sister Emile curled a finger under the girl's chin, tilting her head up so they could see eye to eye. She smiled fondly, her expression almost maternal, and pulled the young half-elf into a warm embrace.   
  
"Sticks and stones, Shay. Sticks and stones!"   
  
"Mrrr..." Shayla grimaced, scowling against the sister's expansive bosom.    
  
How she hated that expression. So condescending. Words did indeed hurt.    
Their effects lasted so much longer than the scratches and bruises of sticks and stones, swirling inside her brain for days on end. Try as she might, there was no escaping the insults and verbal abuse that seemed to taunt her at every corner, the cruel words and sly barbs keeping her awake each night as they repeated endlessly inside her head.   
  
_ Knife-ears. _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _ Runt. _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _ Half-breed.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _ Abomination. _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _ Mistake. _   
  
A whole litany of unpleasantries. 

  
Each word stabbed at her like a dagger through the heart, twisting little by little each day but she hid her pain well. Maker help her if her tormentors should ever see her cry...   
  
Stiffening, she pulled away from Sister Emile's warm embrace and stood up, brushing blades of grass from her simple blue robes and fixing several stray strands of hair. Outstretching her hand, she frowned at the ebony haired sister, clearing her throat indignantly.    
  
"My acid flask, please?"   
  
"I think I'll hold onto this until you've calmed down, Shay. Besides, you're  _ technically _ not supposed to know how to make these at least until your final year of training..." Sister Emile replied curtly, stashing the flask down the front of her robes and sniffing softly.   
  
"I'll overlook your indiscretion this time but if I catch you with contraband again, don't expect any mercy."   
  
"Whatever..." Shayla muttered irritably, hitching her robes up slightly as she began to ascend the stone steps, intent on satisfying her craving for violence by attacking a dirty big lump of Brecilian Forest gateau from the pantry.    
  
However, just as she reached the top most step, the sound of hoof-falls on the cobblestone path beyond the Chantry gates caused her to turn. Eyes widening in surprise, she watched as a convoy of three knights perched atop majestic brown Clydesdale horses pulled up to the gates, flanking a large horse-drawn wooden carriage painted in shades of gold and blue.   
  
She immediately recognized the emblem on the side: it was the official mark of the Arl of Redcliffe.   
  
"What in Andraste's name...?" the young half-elf thought aloud, watching curiously as one of the knights dismounted his steed and dutifully opened the wagon's door, bowing low as the occupant stepped out.    
  
Shayla had only been in the presence of royalty once in her life: when King Maric had been in town during a week-long festival celebrating Arl Eamon's 40th birthday.    
  
Although little more than five years old at the time, the young half-Elf remembered vividly the sense of excitement and wonderment that filled the streets of Redcliffe as the high king of all Ferelden graced the sleepy little village with his patronage.    
As Arl Eamon stepped out from the darkness of his carriage, there was a little touch of that same wonderment in the air, the apprentice templars and the new initiates rushing the wall in a bid to get a closer glimpse.   
  
The arl was much taller than Shayla remembered.    
Older too, with a rolling gait that seemed to suggest he was under great duress. His face was littered with fine lines and heavy set wrinkles that bunched around his eyes as he squinted in the dying light of the evening sun.    
  
His once auburn beard was now flecked with grey and he seemed to exude an air of melancholy imperceptible to all but the young half-elf. Her brow knitted as she caught his gaze for a fraction of a second.    
It was a fleeting look but once that spoke volumes, for it was the exact same look her father had worn the day they last laid eyes upon each other.   
  
Shayla's stomach tightened at that thought, a dull ache throbbing faintly in her heart.    
  
It was all too clear to her that this visit was not a happy occasion.   
  
Seating herself atop one of the flat-topped stone pillars that flanked the steps to the entrance, she watched with quiet curiosity as Sister Emile rushed across the yard, welcoming the Arl with warm arms.   
  
Her icy blue eyes studying him closely, Shayla was intrigued by the sudden switch in his demeanor as he stood rigid before the sister. An embattled smile crossed his face but it did not extend to his eyes, faltering slightly at the corners so it more resembled a grimace of pain.   
He spoke casually, chatting in a low tone. Though her distinctive ears offered much sharper hearing than that of most humans, Shayla could scarcely make out the conversation between the Arl and Sister Emile, so low was his voice that it was little more than a whisper.   
  
After a while, the Arl returned to his carriage, speaking in a louder tone, his words curt and devoid of emotion. He struggled with something inside, soon calling for the assistance of one of his knights as he attempted to drag a squirming boy out of the vehicle, the air punctuated by the sound of the child emitting a stream of colorful curse words.   
  
"No, I don't wanna go! Leave me alone!" Alistair screamed loudly, kicking his legs and flailing wildly as the knight manhandled him out of the carriage.    
With a grunt, the knight shoved the boy roughly through the gates, causing him to stumble and trip over a rock, tearing a large hole in the knee of his left pant leg.   
  
"No need for that, Ser Alec!" Arl Eamon chided, his brow furrowing; "Maker knows he's had a horrible day as it is. Help him up, for goodness sake!"   
  
The knight clicked his tongue disapprovingly but obeyed the Arl's command.    
Curling a large, metal-clad hand around Alistair's scrawny arm, Ser Alec dragged him to his feet, giving him a quick shove towards Sister Emile. 

"Behave yourself." he said gruffly before turning once more towards the carriage and mounting his horse.   
  
"Sister Emile..." The Arl's voice was wary and heavy with unease; "...I entrust to you that which I hold most dear in this world. Take care of him. He's scrappy but beneath all that..." he sighed heavily, averting his gaze to the cobblestone ground; "...he's a sensitive soul. Nurture him..."   
  
The ebony haired sister nodded softly, placing a comforting hand on the Arl's shoulder, a look of sympathy upon her face.    
"You have my word, mi'lord. He will come to no harm on my watch."   
  
The Arl seemed satisfied with this response, nodding once. Heading back to his carriage, he turned and cast one last glance at Alistair, his expression unreadable.    
The blonde haired boy could only stare back, tears of mixed anger and sorrow rolling down his cheeks as he stood rooted to the spot, his hands clenched into fists by his side.   
  
As he placed his foot on the small metal step, Arl Eamon clicked his fingers once towards the driver before hauling his heavily armored body inside, closing the door behind him with an audible clank.    
  
The window, tinted black to ward off prying eyes, was swiftly rolled all the way up and as the driver yanked on the reigns of the horses, the carriage soon disappeared down the path, heading back towards the castle.   
  
"Come, lad. Let us dry those tears..." Sister Emile whispered softly, fishing a hanky from the pocket of her robes.    
  
Gulping back choking sobs, Alistair could only nod, defeated, as she gently led him up the dirt path towards the arched entrance of the spacious stone building before them. The young boy was acutely aware of the feeling of countless eyes burning into him, scrutinizing him from every angle. Although well used to it in the grounds of the castle, the feeling was horridly alien in the grounds of the village Chantry and as he fumbled his way up the stone steps, Alistair wondered if he would ever get to see his former home again.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
The mess hall was unusually quiet for this time of the evening. Normally at eighty-thirty in the evening it would be swarming with all manner of people looking to gorge themselves to damnation but tonight, only a few stragglers sat among the rows of wooden benches.    
  
Shayla figured this had something to do with the new initiate. Perhaps Sister Emile had warned the boisterous young templars to keep out of his hair.    
  
Whatever the reasons behind the mess hall's uncharacteristic emptiness, she couldn't help but steal glances at the poor lad, currently seated in the corner, staring listlessly into a bowl of potato and leek soup.    
  
Glancing up from her Herbology notes, her expression faltered as she noticed the pained expression upon his face. It was a familiar sight to the half-elf who knew his turmoil all too well, having been wrenched from her own home in a time long since past.   
  
Steeled by that thought, she gathered up her parchments, quills and bags of dried Elf-root and crossed the hall to where he sat.    
  
"Hey there..." she whispered softly, cocking her head to the side to look at him.    
  
Alistair barely registered her words, blinking slowly as his gaze focused on the light green liquid in the bowl before him.    
  
He was a pitiful sight.    
  
Although dressed splendidly in a chain-link tunic of blue, silver and gold, he had the look of a peasant boy about him, his frame thin and lanky beneath his garments.  His hair was the color of cloudy honey and it hung limp past his jaw, threatening to dip into his soup as he slumped over the table, defeat written clean across his face.    
  
Seating herself beside him, the young half-elf considered him some more. She saw his eyes were a deep chocolate brown and her heart lurched as she saw the anguish in them, outlined by angry red. It was clear he'd spent most of the day sobbing and now, he was drained of his tears, taking instead to hunching over his soup bowl, probably contemplating on drowning in it.   
  
  
"...H-Hi." His voice was so tiny Shayla had to strain her ears to hear it.   
  
"Are you alright?" she offered gently, watching as he sniffed and rubbed his eyes on the back of his sleeve.   
  
The look he cast her was so helpless and so filled with silent pleading that it was all she could do to curl her arms around his shoulders. At this, his shoulders began to shake but no tears left his eyes.  He had already drained that ocean of every single drop.    
  
Clearing his throat awkwardly, Alistair hiccuped slightly, quickly regaining his composure.   
"S-sorry. It's been a rough day..." he murmured, cheeks burning bashfully.   
  
Shayla cast him a comforting smile, giving him a reassuring squeeze.    
"It's okay. We've all been there. Though, if it's not too bold to ask, it looked to me like you really got the short end of the stick..."   
  
At this, Alistair frowned deeply, forcefully shrugging her shoulders off.    
"That scene in the yard is none of your business!"   
  
Blinking in surprise, Shayla raised her hands in mock surrender, her ice-colored eyes widening slightly.    
"Hey-hey! I meant no offence! If you don't wanna talk about it, I won't push you. It's just.." she rested her hands in her lap, a wistful smile crossing her lips; "...I know how hard the first night is. I was just trying to be friendly is all."   
  
The boy's face softened at this, the corners of his lips pulling into a tiny smile.    
"...Ahh. Sorry. I'm just....all over the shop today, really. The whole idea of being sent here... it was a bolt out of the blue!"   
  
"Heh. I know the feeling. I was seven when my mother dumped me on the doorstep. No warning signs whatsoever. Granted, I  **was** a bit of a tiny terror..."   
Shayla's voice, though light, was edged with mild contempt as she thought back to the circumstances that brought her to the Chantry, a crinkle appearing between her crimson eyebrows. Alistair must've sensed her tension as he coughed loudly, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen in the wake of her off-hand comment.   
  
Clearing her throat, the young girl forced a smile, cracked her knuckles and rested her elbows on the table.    
  
"So, you got a name to go with that cute face?"   
  
The boy's cheeks turned maroon at this, his eyes widening.    
"Y-you think I'm...c-cute?!"   
  
Shayla giggled softly, playfully ruffling his hair.    
"You're a damn sight prettier than most of the templars stinking up the place! And may I say, you blush most adorably!" Amused by his bashfulness, she extended a hand in warm welcoming.  "Shayla Yelanei. Call me Shay."   
  
Alistair hesitantly took her hand, blushing to the roots of his hair.    
"A-Alistair. Just Alistair. N-no nicknames..."   
  
"That's a lovely name." Shayla said sincerely, scooting closer to him, their hips lightly brushing against one another; "Doesn't that mean  _ 'He of noble heart'?" _   
  
"I've no idea..." Alistair swallowed, feeling uncomfortable at the level of closeness this strange girl was displaying.    
  
She couldn't have been much older than himself, even if she was nearly a full head shorter. Her hair was a deep, intense shade of strawberry red- a color that led him to assume she couldn't possibly be human or at least, she was quite fond of using henna.    
Her skin was the color of milk and seemed to compliment her hair rather well, though the thought deeply confused the boy.    
  
Alistair was only just beginning to notice girls these days and if he found himself pressed to describe the one cosily seated next to him, chances are he'd describe her as "mildly pretty" before running away to some far-off corner, lest his glowing cheeks incinerate the room.   
  
Alistair felt his cheeks burn more intensely as the thought registered.    
_ Now's not the time! _ he thought to himself, averting his gaze back to his soup so as not to find himself fumbling his words much like he did whenever he stole a peek at the scullery maid's undergarments...   
  
  
"Well, Alistair, it's a pleasure to meet you." Shayla said, oblivious to the less than savory thoughts swirling around the boy's head; "They'll be calling lights out in an hour. If I were you, I'd go to bed early.  The first night in the Chantry is always the most nerve-racking but it gets better after a while. Would you like me to escort you to the dormitories?"   
  
Alistair nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Rising from the wooden stool, the red haired half-Elf cast him a gentle smile held out her hand expectantly, cocking her head to the side.    
  
"It's not that hard to find your way around the place. Once you get a feel for how things are, it becomes second nature. C'mon. I'll introduce you to your room-mates."   
  
Taking a deep breath, Alistair exhaled in a sigh, declining her hand to place them firmly in his pockets. He highly doubted such a lovely girl like herself would appreciate the feel of his sweaty palms.    
  
She didn't seem to mind the snub, though and as he dutifully joined her side, he found himself relaxing as they walked through the sparsely populated corridor.   
The trek to the boy's dormitory was largely silent as Alistair struggled to think of something to say, unused to company of the female kind. As they neared the large wooden doors leading into the common room, however, she was the one to speak first.    
  
"So, Alistair...if you don't mind me asking, how old are you?" Shayla queried, glancing at the boy with curiosity in her eyes.   
  
"Oh.. uh.. I just turned ten." 

She smiled broadly at this.    
"Ten, huh? Heh. Boy, are you in for a shock! I'll be thirteen in October myself."   
  
"Shock? W-what shock?" The young boy simpered, panic seizing him as his eyes grew wide. Chuckling heartily, Shayla lightly bopped his nose with her index finger.    
  
"You're in with the templars, right? They're a... _rowdy_ bunch, to say the least. Most of them are friendly enough but watch out for a brown haired little weasel named Dendrick. He's an assh-" the red-head stopped herself, blushing slightly as she swept some hair behind her ear. "...Let's just say he's no messiah and leave it at that.."   
  
"Dendrick. A naughty boy. Got it." Alistair gulped, frowning slightly.    
  
Twisting the door handle, Shayla held the door open politely, indicating him to enter.    
The blonde haired boy breathed out deeply, taking a tentative step into the room.   
  
The boy's dormitory was one long room-about the size of four double bedrooms in Redcliffe castle knocked together into one gigantic, cavernous stone room.    
With a high vaulted ceiling, the walls were lined with rows after rows of wooden bunk beds, the line broken occasionally by the odd desk or wardrobe.    
  
A row of bookshelves flanked either side of the door and the far end of the room, several sofas and threadbare armchairs were arranged before a huge marble fireplace, already burning with orange flames that smelt faintly of mandarins.    
  
It was surprisingly cosy and as Alistair glanced around, he was met with a friendly chorus of "Hello's" from some of the apprentices and several initiates peppered around the room: some laying on their bunks, others lounging by the fire.   
  
"Everyone!" Shayla's voice was loud as a bell, reverberating off the stone walls; "Say hello to Alistair!"   
  
"Hi, Alistair! How's it going?"The friendly replies were varied but welcoming.   
  
"I want you to be extra nice to him tonight 'cause it's his first night in the Chantry. You all know how rough it can be so be kind to him or you'll all find something  **very** unpleasant lurking at the bottom of your breakfast mugs."   
  
There was a murmur among the many boys nestled in the bunks.    
From over the back of one of the large sofas, a brown-haired boy of about fifteen glanced upon the newcomer, smirking.    
"No need to resort to petty threats, Miss Shayla!" he drawled in a condescending tone; "We'll take  **good** care of the ickle baby!"   
  
Shayla glared at him, her eyes narrowing dangerously.    
"You damn well better, Dendrick. Otherwise, I'll personally see to it that you eat, shit and breathe through a tube for the rest of your natural life."   
  
"Oooh, I love it when you sass me!"   
  
"Ugh.." the red-head groaned loudly, rolling her eyes.    
  
Giving Alistair's shoulders a firm squeeze, she softened her expression into a smile, motioned towards the bunks.    
"Take any bunk that's free. There should be an empty footlocker under the lower bunk to stash your stuff if you haven't done already. If you need anything, the girl's dorm is just down the hall. I'm in there most days, though if you can't find me, the library is just up the stairs and the first door to the right."   
  
"Oooh, is he your new boyfriend, Shayla?" Dendrick teased, pretending to sulk; "I thought _I_ was your gentleman caller!"   
  
"Dendrick, if you were the last boy on Earth and I was the last girl.." Shayla said dryly; "...and the future of humanity looked to us to repopulate the planet, I'd gladly shoot myself in the head with a Fire Arrow."   
  
"That sounds awfully painful, Shay.." Alistair said, a bemused look on his face. The young girl chuckled softly, ruffling his hair. "No more painful than listening to Dendrick's unfunny jokes! Now, to bed with you. You've had a long day and it'll be an even longer one in the morning."   
  
"Aren't you going to tuck him in?" Dendrick teased, batting his lashes and making kissy noises; "..Maybe even give him a bedtime story with a  **really** happy end-"   
  
"Finish that sentence and I'll break your tibia, fibula and scapula in half .With. My. Bare. Hands."   
  
Dendrick was about to fire off another snappy retort but stopped short when he saw the rage flaring in the half-elf's eyes.    
He'd clearly touched a nerve but knew from experience that if he wanted to get through the night without an excruciating injury he'd best shut up. Frowning, he shook his head and sighed, turning his attention back to watching the flames lick at a log in the fire.   
  
Glancing quizzically at the young red-head, Alistair watched as she crossed the room to one of the single beds nestled beneath an elaborate stained glass window.    
  
Following her, he watched as she seated herself on the edge, patting the mattress.   
  
"Shay...?" he whispered softly, brows knitted with confusion. She pursed her lips slightly, giving Dendrick a quick glare.    
  
"Ignore him. He talks tough but he's chicken-shit when it comes to the real action..." she muttered, pulling back the corner of the thick blanket.    
  
Climbing in among the freshly cleaned sheets, Alistair sat up against his pillow, studying his new friend.   
  
"Umm.. thanks for this." he said softly, smiling shyly as she leaned over him, gently tucking him into bed. "..I really appreciate your help, Shay."   
  
"You're very welcome, Alistair." she replied, her expression softening.  "I only wish I had the luxury of a friend when I first arrived here." Her eyes grew heavy for a moment but she shook the thoughts out of her head before they could fully form. "That, however, is a story for some other time. For now, I wish you goodnight. Sleep tight, my friend. Don't let the dark-spawn bite!"   
  
With that, she planted a sweet kiss on the tip of his nose, smiling warmly as his cheeks burned furiously once more and stood up, heading towards the door. With a flick of her wrist, a supernatural gust of wind swept through the room, extinguishing the wall-mounted lamps and cloaking the room in inky darkness.    
  
"Goodnight, boys! Make sure he survives the night!"   
  
Closing the door over, the sound echoed across the stone walls, soon replaced by her faint footfalls along the corridor outside before finally, the low drawl of conversation trickled down into the white noise of light snores.    
  
As Alistair rested against his pillow, staring at the ceiling, his fingers rubbed at the tip of his nose. A smile crossed his lips.    
_   
Perhaps life in the Chantry wouldn't be so bad after all.. _   
  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

  
Shayla sighed deeply to herself, one hand reaching to caress her aching temples for the upteenth time as she stretched awkwardly in her chair. Judging by the dim light from the stained glass windows peppering the walls of the Chantry library, it was either late evening or early morning.   
  
It was getting harder to tell these days, what with the nights getting shorter as autumn rolled in.   
  
Blinking back the fatigue, she could barely suppress a loud yawn and as she glanced around the cavernous study hall, she was alarmed to find herself completely alone.   
  
"Maker's breath, did I fall asleep at my desk again...?!" she muttered aloud, cheek burning with embarrassment as she hurriedly swept her parchments and study paraphenalia into her satchel.  She could only hope it was late enough that the sisters would be long unconscious, lest she feel the sting of a cane against her backside for daring to miss the evening curfew.   
  
Packing away the last of her quills and ink pots, she slung the thick leather bag over her shoulder and took three short sprints to cross the stone floor towards the doorway. It was eerily quiet outside- not a good sign.    
  
The young woman gulped back the lump in her throat, her palm sweaty as she tentatively curled it around the door handle-   
  
"Shayla!"   
  
"GYAH!"   
  
Jumping a good foot in the air, Shayla felt her heart leap up into her throat as her name echoed faintly off the stone walls. Gasping in fright, she spun around so fast on her heels that she would've certainly stumbled had a pair of strong but gentle hands not gripped her shoulders.   
  
Panting hard as she struggled to catch her breath, Shayla timidly glanced up at her captor. As soon as her ice-colored eyes met that familiar mischievous pair of brown, her shoulders slumped and her startled expression was swiftly replaced with agitation.   
  
"Sweet tap-dancing Androste, Alistair! You scared the living daylights out of me!" she hissed, a hand reaching to smack him across the thin leather of his chest piece. The action did nothing to sway the young apprentice Templar and as he watched the young woman flail against his grip, a broad smile crossed Alistair's features.   
  
"Catching up on your beauty sleep again?" he teased, chuckling softly as he watched her cheeks puff with indignity.   
  
"Sh-shut up! It's not that late!" she snapped, brows furrowing darkly as she wiggled free of his grip and fixed her satchel strap against her shoulder.   
  
"Aye, that it isn't. If we hurry, we might eat breakfast  **early** for once..." Alistair quipped, relishing the renewed look of abject horror that spread across his friend's face.  Slumped down on the edge of one of the massive oak tables dotted around the library, Shayla let a long, low groan escape her lips.   
  
"Please tell me you're joking..." she muttered darkly, casting him a haughty glare.    
  
"Nooo.... **pe** ." Alistair let his lips pop on the last syllable, his smirk widening.   
  
How he enjoyed watching her squirm.    
  
It was becoming a more common-place occurrence these days, what with her regularly missing the midnight curfew in favor of all-night study sessions.   
Whilst he knew the seriousness behind her near-slavish study routine, it gave him no end of giggles to watch his normally stoic and level-headed friend getting flustered over the potential threat of a caning.   
  
As though she had somehow read his mind and heard the barely contained giggles that shook his shoulders, the red-haired mage-in-training shot him a filthy look, her eyes narrowed dangerously.   
  
"You were supposed to come collect me before lights out! Where the hell have you been?!" she growled, her voice low and heavy with accusation. The smirk faded from Alistair's face in an instant.   
  
"Sorry! Sorry! Lost track of the time..." he simpered.    
  
Pursing her lips, Shayla hopped off the table, squaring up to her companion as she stood on her toes so as to better see eye to eye.  _ Curse you and your tallness! _ She thought angrily to herself, her scowl deepening as she took in his imposing height.   
  
In six short years, he was already a full head and a half taller than she and showing no sign of slowing his growth. Barely reaching his chest if she stood on tip-toe, the young half-elf couldn't help but feel put out as he towered over her diminutive frame.   
  
It did nothing for her confidence or her spine to constantly have to crane her neck to look at him.   
  
"Off raiding the pantry, were you?" she said with a sneer, poking his chest plate with one long, ink-splattered finger. "I swear to the Maker, Alistair! One of these days, your gluttonous ways will be your undoing!"   
  
"What can I say? I've a major weakness for Stilton!"   
  
"You'll forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm for cheese that smells of feet..." Shayla's lip curled slightly as she caught the distinctive cheesy tang of his breath. It was a familiar scent to her nostrils and whilst not unpleasant, it had the undesirable effect of making her stomach grumble with a vengeance.    
  
"One of these days, I'll introduce you to a cheese that doesn't offend your oh-so-finicky taste buds!" Alistair retorted in mock-offense.   
  
Rolling her eyes, Shayla turned towards the door, struggling to ignore the desperate hunger deep within her gut. "Don't hold your breath!" she chuckled softly, wrenching the door open none-too-gently.    
  
Just as she set foot outside the frame, however, Alistair's strong hands pulled her back inside.   
  
"What-?" she gasped, only to be silenced by a finger to her lips. Meeting the young man's gaze, she noted the serious expression on his face.   
  
"It'll be worse for you if the sisters catch us both...people are already beginning to _talk_ , y'know..."  His voice was low, calm but alert as he cast her a look of warning.    
  
Shayla blinked, glancing in bewilderment to the stone corridor just outside the doorway. For the most part, it was deserted but she'd lived long enough in Redcliffe Chantry to know that there were always people watching from the shadows, waiting like encircling vultures for one slip, one wrong word, one breach of the rules before they pounced upon an unsuspecting victim.   
  
A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of the consequences. It was bad enough being caught out long after curfew but to be caught in the company of a Templar in training after hours? She didn't want to think of what punishment she might meet were the Revered Mother to poke her head in the door at this very moment.   
  
"Talk? About what, Alistair?" Shayla managed to get out, her voice low and cautious; "Wait...what have you been telling people?"   
  
"N-nothing! It's just..." his hands swiftly left her shoulders, moving to fold protectively over his chest as he averted his gaze, a tell-tale pink hue coloring his ears. "...W-well, a lot of people assume.. since..since we spend so much time together that you...and-and I.." he trailed off, his voice dithering as he shuffled awkwardly.   
  
Shayla arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling into a devious smile.   
"That we what? Meet up after curfew to indulge in some full frontal snogging behind the chicken coop?"   
  
"Sh-Shayla-!" Alistair's head shot up at once, his face maroon and marred with shock. "Don't say such _scandalous_ things!"   
  
"What else do they say, Alistair?" she whispered softly, her hands reaching towards his chest to trail up towards his shoulders. As they found their way to his neck, she saw that all-too-familiar blush of his extend down past his jaw, tinting his skin so completely that he looked practically sun-burnt.   
  
"Sh-Shayla... d-don't...!" he whispered, his eyes focused on her as she leaned in closer, her fingers tangling in the unkempt length of shaggy hair at his nape.   
  
"Do they think..." she curled her arms around her neck, her ankles straining as she shifted all her weight into her toes, forcing him to catch her around the waist; "...that we spend the nights commiting wanton sins of the flesh?" her voice was slow and husky, deliberately teasing him as her breath caressed his ear lobe.   
  
She could feel him trembling against her, his fingers twitching softly at her hips as he tried desperately to remain stoic.  _ Now who's being flustered? _ She thought wickedly, angling her jaw just enough. Their lips were mere millimetres from each other...   
  
"Androste, forgive her! She knows not what she speaks...!" Alistair simpered, his eyes wide as saucers and filled with shock as she sucked in a breath, her eyelashes fluttering.   
  
"Alistaaaiir..." she whispered, her fingers gently tracing the base of his skull.   
  
"Y-y-y-y-ess...?" his voice was high pitched and frightened, betraying his youth. She smirked against him, a breathy chuckle reverberating through his ear.   
  
"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?"   
  
"What? Oh, for crying out loud, Shayla!"   
  
She pulled back, resting her feet firmly on the floor as she gave a throaty chuckle. If there was one thing she could always count on, it was Alistair's naive nature. Placing a hand to her mouth to slow the onslaught of giggles, she could only snicker as she watched the flustered Templar shudder and brush away imaginary lint from his armor.   
  
"You're an evil woman, you know that?" he said dryly, mouth a thin line.   
  
"Oh hush. You  **know** you want me." she teased mercilessly, biting her bottom lip to stifle a laugh at the indignant look on his face.   
  
"I swear! That mouth of yours is going to get you into big trouble before long!" Alistair said in bemusement, covering his own shock and mortification with a nervy chuckle.  Smiling softly, her giggles slowing to the occasional titter, Shayla found one of his hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze.   
  
"We can but hope!"   
  
"Ughh... c'mon. Let's get out of here before your stomach wakes the entire village!"   
  
At this, the young mage's gut gave an unmistakable lurch. She scowled at the sound, embarrassed but said nothing of it. Shaking his head, Alistair precluded her as they stepped cautiously into the corridor. Glancing up and down the full length of the stone archway, he extended a hand to her, confident they were in the clear.   
  
Stretching slightly, she took his hand and looped their fingers together as she followed his timid steps along the walkway.   
  
He certainly wasn't lying about the time. The Chantry was quiet in the dead of morning, uncharacteristically still and lit only by a tiny streak of orange that flooded through the windows, growing in size as the sun slowly rose over the sleepy village. It was also extremely cold, the fires in the wall brackets having burnt out during the night, robbing the hallway of warmth.   
  
Shayla shivered slightly, alarmed to see her breath before her as she exhaled.  It wasn't usual for it to be so cold in the month of August and as she pulled at the fabric falling from her thin shoulders, the chill perminated her body, sending an icy ripple up her spine.   
Unconsciously, she leaned into Alistair, her arm winding around his waist as she huddled into his chest.   
  
He stiffened slightly but didn't protest her actions. In all truthfulness, he enjoyed the closeness, savoring the feel of her tiny, doll-like hands winding around him.    
He could feel the fatigue radiate off her, see the weight pulling at her eyelids.   
  
A small smile crossed his lips as her eyelids closed over for a brief moment, her body swaying slightly as she fought in vain against the onslaught of exhaustion that had snuck up on her.   
  
"Maybe I should just pull a sicky and sleep for a bit..." she pondered aloud, her words punctuated with a loud yawn. Alistair chuckled softly, playfully elbowing her in the ribs. The action caused her eyes to jolt open, an audible yelp escaping her body.   
  
"Fat chance. You've used up all your sick days for the year already and if you think I'm going cover for you again, you can keep dreaming!"   
  
"Keep elbowing me in the ribs and I'll put  **you** in the bloody infirmary!" Shayla gasped, jolted into full alertness as the sudden sting in her side blasted away the muggy sensation of fatigue.   
  
Alistair gulped, swallowing back a nervous chuckle. He never did know his own strength, especially now that the growth spurts had slowed to a steady pace.   
  
This new body felt gangly, unco-ordinated and alien to him and as he stooped low to meet eye-to-eye with his dear friend, he felt a tinge of annoyance over the height difference. Once, he was able to speak with her without risking a back cramp but now, it was almost comical their differences in stature. That wasn't all he was concerned about though, not by a long shot.   
  
This would be his sixteenth autumn and as the years rolled into one with each day spent roaming the halls of the Chantry, many strange and terrifying changes were taking place within Alistair's body.   
  
Not only had he grown taller by a full two heads, his voice had changed from the soft, impish tones of a ten year old, fluctuating wildly in pitch until finally it settled into a deep, low tone that seemed-in his eyes at least-to age him several years. Hair had begun to sprout from bizarre places, requiring thrice-daily shaves and the less said about what was happening below his belt, the better.   
  
That change frightened him the most.   
  
As a ten year old child, Alistair had been awkward, clumsy and coy around the company of the female persuasion. Now, as a hormone-filled adolescent boy, he was outright terrified of them.   
Aside from Shayla, he avoided them like the plague, scared of what he might say or do, or worse- that his body would react without warning and seek to humiliate him to the depths of his soul.   
  
He let out a deep, low sigh at that thought.   
  
"You alright, sweetie?"   
  
Snapped from his reverie at the sound of her voice, Alistair blinked once as his mind was pulled back to reality. He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed when she slipped free of his arms and led them both to the girl's dormitory. Now, as he stood surrounded by row after row of sleeping women, his blush returned in full force and he quickly moved a hand to shield his eyes.   
  
"I really shouldn't be in here!" he simpered, peeking through his fingers as Shayla looked on in amusement. She pursed her lips, tutting softly as she strode across the room to her own bed in the far eastern corner.   
  
"The dormitories are open to everyone during school hours, Alistair. After six years, I'd have thought you'd know that by now." she mused, toeing off her shoes as she sat perched on the edge.   
  
"I-I know that. It's just... there's something a bit... well,  **illicit** about being in a lady's bedchamber in the wee hours of the morning like this..." the sandy haired teen said slowly, gulping as he sat down beside his companion. The bedsprings creaked under the weight of his armor-clad body and he winced, fearful the sound might wake one of Shayla's many room-mates.   
  
"Alistair, if you want to be alone with me, all you have to do is ask." the red-haired mage said dryly, pulling back the covers and slipping beneath, a sigh escaping her lips as the feel of cotton sheets brushed against her legs.   
  
"I-I! Shayla... I... I don't think of you that way...!" he gasped, hands awkwardly fidgeting with the buckles strapping the armor to his chest.   
  
For a fleeting moment, he could've sworn he saw the ghost of disappointment flash across her face. His stomach lurched. That was an outright lie and he knew it. He knew and yet, he couldn't properly find the words to explain just how deeply he felt. Watching her with coy eyes, he forced a smile and shifted a smidgen closer to her.   
  
"You're... you're like a sister to me, Shayla. I do care about you... it's just..."he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence as he gazed upon her.  _ Maker help me... _ he thought pleadingly, his eyes veiled as he studied her face. Almost nineteen but not quite a woman. She'd grown into her ears (much to her great delight) and they now seemed to compliment her face rather than stick out like...well, abnormally large ears, really.   
  
The roundness of her cheeks and jaws had faded over the years, leaving her with an angular face that hinted at her Dalish roots- the high cheekbones, slim nose and almond-shaped eyes giving her an almost feline appearance.   
  
Her lips. Ahh, the lips.   
  
Two plump Cupid's Bows, pink with youth.   
  
His eyes lingered on them a moment too long and sure as the day was long, Shayla noticed.   
  
As she felt his gaze linger upon her, she unconsciously pulled in her bottom lip, chewing it slightly.   
  
Alistair almost came undone.    
  
That simple action: so innocent yet so provocative to his young, easily-swayed mind. He exhaled in a sigh, feeling his heartbeat quicken behind the light leather slats of his chestplate.  He had often wondered what it would be like to kiss a girl... to kiss  _ her _ .   
  
Lying awake in his bed in the still of night, his mind would wander into waters most murky but no matter how deeply he slipped into his boyish fantasies, he always came back to that one tiny little trait of hers.   
  
He watched how her teeth caught the plump flesh of her lower lip, nibbling lightly before releasing it once more. It was a nervous impulse by her, usually caused by stress or self-doubt but as he watched, hypnotised, he couldn't help but wonder if there was more to it than that.   
Did she know? Was she aware of how much such a tiny, insignificant little action could have such a major effect on him? Did she know how, in spite of all the ribbing, the sly jibes, the innuendos and the suggestive remarks, just how much he ached to hold her?   
  
As though he'd said the words aloud, Shayla stiffened, curling her arms around her knees as she huddled beneath the sheets.   
  
"Just what, Alistair?" She cocked her head to the side, glancing at him with curiosity in her eyes.   
  
The sandy haired teen forced a smile, a hand rising hesitantly to brush a stray lock of crimson off her face. "...It's nothing. Nothing at all." he murmured, stroking the hair behind one of her tapered ears. He let his hand linger upon her cheek for a hair's breadth longer than it should have, quietly steeling himself.   
  
It would be so easy. He could just lean forward, close the gap between them and press his lips against hers. All he needed was one little push but he couldn't do it.    
  
He couldn't trust himself not to act like a fool. His heart and mind knew exactly what he wanted but his accursed body...!  _ No, I won't think of such beastly things! _ he thought with scrutiny. With great difficulty, he let his hand drop from her cheek, resting it once more in his lap as he slumped against the stone wall against which the bed was flush.   
  
"You looked like you wanted to say something there..." Shayla whispered, nuzzling against him. He swallowed awkwardly. She certainly wasn't making this any easier.   
  
"Umm.. yes. Yes! I remember now!" Alistair said, mustering up semblance of enthusiasm as the sudden realization hit him. "Today's Saturday, right?"   
  
"I've no idea..."   
  
"Umm, yes, well! The lunatics get let out of the asylum today, so to speak. I was wondering if you'd like to head into town, maybe go see a play or something?" He kept his voice steady, so as not to arouse suspicion.  _ Be cool. Be like a cucumber... _ he thought, anxiously watching her face.   
  
She rubbed her face, desperate to keep from nodding off. Blinking back the dust of long-overdue sleep, Shayla forced a smile.    
"Sounds like a plan!"   
  
Alistair chuckled to himself.    
  
She looked adorable when she was sleepy-all dopey eyed and groggy. Shifting slightly so she could lay down completely, he stood over her and tenderly tucked her in, fluffing her pillow as he did so.   
"Great! I'll come wake you in an hour or two? Give you time to get a quick cat-nap at the very least."   
  
At this, Shayla grinned.    
  
She kicked back the covers, shuffling up against the wall as she patted the sizable amount of mattress she'd just freed up. "Screw that! Come cuddle with me!" her tone was impish but Alistair knew she was most likely planning something fiendish. He furrowed his brows at her, wise to her ruse.   
  
"Oh no, I'm not falling for that again!"   
  
"Alistair... I'm not being mean. Honest."   
  
"Oh? Then why are you smirking? You look suspiciously like the cat who swallowed the canary!"   
  
"I.. oh, never mind. Forget it. Excuse me for wanting to snuggle up with the best looking boy in the Chantry...!" Shayla pouted, folded her arms and rolled over, her back to him as she lay in bed in a strop. Bewildered, Alistair bent down, kneeling lightly on the edge of the bed.   
  
"Shayla..." he offered kindly but she only sulked some more. He knew this ruse all too well- she would always sulk if she didn't get her own way, be it over a dwindling supply of Elfroot or the last slice of Orlesian Sponge Cake. It was so silly- a woman of nineteen behaving so childishly. It was so like her.   
  
Still, he never was good at dealing with her stroppy tantrums so instead, Alistair gave in to her will before things had a chance to escalate. Seating himself once more on the edge of the bed, he toed off his boots and bracers, unsnapping his gauntlets before lifting his armorr over his head and setting it down quietly by the bedpost.  Clad in his padded britches and a light cotton undershirt, he felt deeply exposed and as he watched goosebumps rise up on the flesh of his exposed arms, he wasn't sure if it had anything at all to do with the draught that rattled the window pane.   
  
Sucking in a baited breath, he slung his legs over the side of the bed and beneath the covers. The bed-springs creaked conspiratorially, as though mocking him for his actions. He gritted his teeth, silently shushing them as he turned, gingerly, to face her.   
  
It was a tight fit in the small single bed and it gave no room for breathing. Alistair sucked in his stomach, exhaling raspily as he spooned against her, his hand reaching for her shoulder.   
  
"For shame, woman." he said with mock disdain; "...Using false flattery to get me into bed!"   
  
"I wasn't lying! You really  **are** the most handsome guy in this place, Ali." Shayla said softly, twisting to face him. She lay up against his chest, close enough to feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart as it pounded hard against his rib cage. Her fingertips reached out, brushing the stubble on his chin with a feather-lite touch.   
  
"...Maker, when did you grow up? It's as though I've blinked and six years have flown by. Seems like only yesterday when I first met you..."   
  
Alistair sighed and caught her hand, pressing it to his cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the warm feeling, the contrast of her soft skin against the rough, uneven patches of stubble on his jaw. "...Mmm. That was a wonderful day..." he thought aloud, only to cringe, eyes snapping open as his mouth betrayed him.   
  
"Was it?" Shayla whispered, her eyes heavy; "You seemed so bereft, all alone and out of your depth..."   
  
_ To hell with it... might as well say what's on my mind... _ Alistair thought, resting his chin atop her head. Her hair, red as blood and eternally styled in a waist-length braid behind her back, smelt of a mixture of Elfroot, potions, lyrium and something else he couldn't quite place. It was a familiar scent yet his mind could find no name for it. Bewildering...   
  
"I had _you_ , Shayla." he whispered, breathing in that strange, spicy scent until it filled his lungs completely, tantalizing his senses. "If I never knew you, who knows what might've become of me..."   
  
"Mmm. Doesn't really bear thinking about, does it?" she replied, cuddling into his chest and settling down peacefully.    
  
It was a rare thing for them to be sharing a bed like this. 

It happened briefly in those few tentative weeks following their first meeting, back when Alistair would shake with fiendish nightmares and cry out in his sleep. When that happened, Shayla would be there by his side, comforting him by light of a candle, whispering soothing words in the darkness of the boy's dorm, lulling him to sleep with an Elvish lullaby until he slipped quietly into the Fade.   
  
Her company was his only comfort back then.    
  
These days, he no longer suffered with the nightly terrors and if he did, Shayla reckoned they were long held at bay with the distraction of archery, combat training and all other manner of amusing activities that would keep a teenage boy's mind occupied.   
  
"Get some sleep, pet. You've been working too hard lately." Alistair said softly as he curled one arm behind his head, the other holding her in a light embrace. With a small groan, she flopped against his chest, her legs curling around his, effectively trapping him in the bed.   
  
"I'll sleep plenty when I'm dead."   
  
"By the looks of those bags under your eyes, I'd say you're halfway there already..."   
  
"Oh, shut up. Idiot...!"   
  
Alistair pouted. "Tsch...! And to think, I was all set to spend my hard earned coins by taking you shopping later. Well, if that's going to be your attitude-" he started, only to be silenced as Shayla cupped a small hand over his mouth. Her body turned stiff, seized by quiet panic.   
  
"Shh! Don't move!" she whispered, pulling the sheets fully over both their heads.    
  
The sound of a door opening was all the incentive Alistair needed to stay quiet. Straining his ears to hear, he could make out the sound of hurried footsteps as they scurried across the room. Glancing with uncertainty at his bed-mate, the sandy haired teen braved a peek above the covers, eyes squinting in the semi-darkness.   
  
He watched as a figure in a hooded cloak moved silently from bed to bed, hunching over each for a moment before moving on to the next. The figure appeared to be dragging something behind it but it was hard to make out. As it neared Shayla's bed, she pulled the sheets down further, pressing herself against Alistair's chest as her hand tried desperately to muffle the sound of his breathing.   
  
He looked at her quizzically, bewildered by the presence of the cloaked stranger.   
  
"The courier." Shayla whispered softly, her eyes narrowing; "He's harmless enough but don't think he won't report back to the Revered Mother if he finds an apprentice templar canoodling with a mage-in-training...!"   
  
Alistair squirmed against her, struggling to intake precious oxygen through his nostrils. He grimaced slightly, casting her a pleading look until mercifully, she removed her hand from his mouth. As he inhaled sharply, he froze when he heard the footsteps draw closer.   
  
_ The courier must be right next to the bed _ , he thought. Whatever the case, he didn't want to risk looking. The pair waited in silence, holding their breaths as the room grew quiet but for the sound of sleeping magelings and trainee Chantry sisters.   
  
The footsteps started up again, louder this time.   
  
The courier was certainly right next to the bed. Alistair didn't dare breathe. In all honesty, the tension was rather exciting, addictive even and he felt Shayla's lithe body nestled cosily against him, he couldn't help but feel he was being a very naughty boy...   
  
"Yelenei..." the courier spoke quietly, muttering her surname more to himself than anyone else. Before the pair could question what was happening, a sudden weight fell on top of Shayla, almost causing her to cry out in alarm. Fortunately, she held it together and as they listened to the footsteps retreat once more, both managed to exhale as the dormitory doors finally closed once more.   
  
"Ow..." she groaned, peeling back the covers to steal a glance at whatever it was that had smacked her shoulder blade. Perched atop the sheets was a small bundle of envelopes and a brick-sized parcel wrapped in brown parchment, all tied together with a length of blue twine.   
  
"A parcel? Oooh, are there cookies in it?" Alistair queried, watching as she undid the knot in the twine, scanning each letter with scrutiny.   
  
"Alistair, in all the years you've known me, have I ever _once_ received cookies in the mail?" she said wryly, chuckling at his crestfallen expression.   
  
"Some of us still live in hope!"   
  
Shaking her head, Shayla placed the bulk of the envelopes into her satchel, which was hanging off one of the bedposts and instead, picked up the parcel, thumbing it curiously. She shook it once- it was fairly heavy and something rattled faintly inside.   
  
"Whatever could this be?" she thought aloud, fingers tracing the unfamiliar scripture on the label. There was no return address but the handwriting looked official.    
  
With a flick of her nail, she tore at the wax seals holding the parchment together. Pulling it aside, she was met with an ornate rosewood box, sealed in black lacquer with an elaborate phoenix design in silver adorning the lid. A matching peg lock sealed the little box shut and as her fingers brushed over the cool metal, Shayla emitted a reverent gasp.   
  
"Oooh, that's  **pretty** !" Alistair exclaimed, leaning in for a closer look. "What is it?"   
  
"You've never seen an apothecary box before, Alistair?"   
  
"An apock-a-whut?"   
  
"Apoc-a-thry. Y'know, as in potion making?"   
  
"Ohhhh.." Alistair's eyes shone with vague understanding. "I get it. I've never seen a box as pretty as that, though.."   
  
"You haven't seen many boxes, then, have you?" Shayla's voice was suggestive and flirty, her eyes glinting with mischief. Alistair could only arch an eyebrow, the blatant innuendo clearly lost on his naive ears.   
  
"So, who's it from, Shay?"   
  
Brows knitted with curiosity, Shayla gently slid the little silver peg from the latch, opening the box slowly. She wasn't sure exactly what she expected to find within the sweet-scented wooden square but as she opened the lid out fully, she was surprised to find a set of jewelry within, along with a tiny scrap of parchment covered in an near illegible chicken scrawl. Squinting, she read it to herself.   
  
**_"If you don't control your mind, someone else will."_ **   
  
Frowning, Shayla turned the little scrap of parchment over in her hands.    
  
That was it. No elaboration, no signature, no return address.    
  
Glancing at the jewelry set before her, she gazed at it with trepidation.  Two rings sat inside the box, both made of ornate silver and covered in what looked to be Elvish knots and crests, one topped with a ruby whilst the other was adorned with an unfamiliar orange crystal. There was also an elaborately embroidered amulet of the same design, the centre of which was fashioned into the shape of a phoenix and dotted with alternating gems of red and orange.   
  
Lastly, a matching set of earrings completed the set.   
  
"Weird. There's no name, no return address... Nothing. What on earth could that mean?" Shayla whispered, fingertips brushing over the silver amulet. It felt cool to the touch, though there was also the distinctive tingling sensation that came with touching something coated with lyrium.   
  
"Your guess is as good as mine, Shay. Still, it's not polite to look a gift horse in the mouth..." Alistair said, slumped back against the pillows and watched her closely. Shrugging, Shayla resealed the box, pushing it under the bed so as to deal with it at a later stage.   
  
"I'll deal with it after a nap. Come, lie down and be a pillow. I am sleepy and your chest is warm and snuggle-worthy."   
  
Before he could protest, she was back on top of him once more, her small body resting neatly against his as she nestled against his chest. Alistair felt his nerves return to him. As he listened to the sound of the young woman's breathing slow as she grew more tired, he couldn't help but think about the little note in the box beneath the bed.   
  
  
" _ 'If you don't control your mind, someone else will' _ ..." he mused to himself, brows knitted in contemplation. It sounded like a sign, a warning against some horrible punishment that might be winging its way to Shayla on swift wings.   
  
His arms tightened around her waist at the thought, his heart lurching with unease.   
_ It's probably just a hoax... costume jewelry sent by some nutcase with a twisted sense of humor... _ he thought to himself, frowning.   
  
Still, as much as he tried to justify the note, he couldn't shake the ominous feeling of forbidding. He glanced down at her then, watching as she rubbed her eyes warily, a yawn escaping her lips.   
  
"Pleasant dreams..." she murmured, slipping effortlessly into a deep sleep, her cheek flat against his heart. He smiled grimly, trying to shake the thoughts from his head.   
  
_ "May the Maker watch over you... _   


* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

  
Blinking against the sudden onslaught of light shining before him, Alistair let a low groan escape his lips as he winced, shielding his eyes. "What...?" he murmured, rubbing the sleep from his face as he moved to sit up. It was then that he noticed the lack of weight on his chest.   
  
"Shayla...?"    
  
"Eek! Don't look!"   
  
"Wha-?" Before he could react, a heavy pair of robes sailed through the air, smacking him hard in the face. He gasped, caught off-guard and as he swatted away the offending items, he found himself staring at a rather shapely pair of cotton-clad buttocks.   
  
"Ah! Sorry!" he cried, clenching his eyes shut. A squeal sounded from the young redhead and as she quickly dropped her dress into place, she felt her cheeks burn brightly.   
  
"Don't scare me like that!" she gasped, leaning to give him a light slap on the shoulder. Alistair's face flushed red but he dared not open his eyes, fearful he might see more than he should. Even so, the image of those immaculate white cotton panties was now forever ingrained in his mind.   
  
"H-How long was I out?" he simpered, desperate to change the subject as his mind flashed the tantalizing image through his brain.   
  
"A few hours. It's almost lunch time now. Perhaps you better go change before you stink up the place.." Shayla's voice was teasing but there was no denying the flustered tone. She had been caught off-guard just now, mistakenly believing him to be so comatose as to not notice when she changed from her light blue robes. Smoothing the creases from the simple green sundress that gently hugged her petite frame, she exhaled deeply, hoping he hadn't seen more than he should've.   
  
As comfortable as she was around him, Shayla was certainly not about to expose her tender under belly, much less the horrific mess of skin on her shoulders. Turning people's stomach was usually best left 'till after lunch...   
  
"I don't  **stink** , do I?" Alistair frowned, peeking through his fingers. Relief flooded his sense as he saw she was decent once more and as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he couldn't help but notice something was off about her.   
  
"Well, no, but it wouldn't hurt to at least freshen up. Honestly, you're the only guy I know who gets a five o' clock shadow before noon..." she teased, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she reached for something inside her footlocker.   
  
_ Ah, that's it! _ Alistair thought.    
Her hair was loose for a change. Perched on the thin mattress, he watched quietly as she ran a brush through the thick, lustrous mane of blood-colored hair. As she teased out the kinks and knots from the previous night, she would occasionally toss her head back, letting the long, wavy tendrils cascade down towards the small of her back.   
  
He sighed softly. "Shayla, can I ask you something?"   
  
"No, you can't use my mango-scented hair mask again! At the rate you use it, I'd have sworn you were eating the stuff!" she quipped, wincing as the brush caught on a particularly stubborn tangle.   
  
"I didn't eat it!" Alistair snapped indignantly.  _ I  _ **_smeared_ ** _ it on a bagel... _   
  
"A likely story..." Shayla's expression softened, her eyes veiled as she met his gaze. "Okay, what was it you wished to ask?"   
  
At this, the sandy haired teen felt his fingers twitch. He swallowed a few times, feeling sheepish as his blush intensified somewhat but he breathed low, keeping his composure. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he stood up swiftly, moving to stand behind her at the small communal vanity table, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders.   
  
"I was just wondering... maybe you could wear your hair down today?" his voice was soft, hesitant even and he watched a slight crinkle appear over her nose, reflected in the large oval mirror before them, he steeled himself for the rejection that was sure to follow.   
  
She studied him for a moment, considering his request. There was a strange grimace-like expression upon his face then, as though he was expecting some bad news. Shayla had to chuckle. She wondered then if he would ever overcome his shyness.   
  
Picking up a small silver clip, she pulled a few strands at the side of her temples into a loose ponytail, letting the rest hang free over her shoulders. Casting him a soft smile, she stood, turning to face him with a curious gaze.   
  
"What's brought this on, then?"   
  
"I'm sorry.." he breathed quickly; "...It's just I've never seen you with your hair down before. It... it suits you."   
  
Her brow furrowed at this, her gaze shifting to her reflection. The red tendrils pooled over her shoulders and collar, long and full but for the overgrown bangs in front that stuck out awkwardly in a haphazard fashion. She couldn't help but scowl- with her hair loose, she was the spitting image of her mother.   
  
A higher insult, she could think of none. Still, not wanting to cast a downer on the day, she pushed that particularly dark thought to the back of her mind and looped a lock around her finger, shuffling her bare feet against the cool stone floor.   
  
"You really think so?" she said coyly, playing up to his flattery; "You don't think it makes me look distractingly girly?"   
  
"You? Girly? Pfft..!" Alistair retorted, wrinkling his nose as a nervous chuckle rose forth from his chest. "Those two words should never be used in the same sentence!"   
  
She snorted, eyes rolling towards the ceiling. "Enough! Let me go pull on my shoes. If I have to spend another minute in this dormitory listening to your futile attempts at humor, I may die of boredom!"   
  
"Indeed..." Alistair nodded, lifting his arm up to take a quick sniff of his armpit. He blanched slightly, the smell of dried sweat and day-old mud burning his nostrils.  _ Very attractive... _ he thought, pursing his lips. Clearing his throat loudly, he cast her a meek smile and made his way across the room towards the door.   
  
"Uhh...y'know, on second thoughts, maybe I  **will** go freshen up..."   
  
"Don't take too long! I might very well just burst into the washroom and drag you out by that ridiculous mane of hair if you do!" Shayla sniffed, mouth twitching into a smirk.   
  
"Oh, Maker! Assaulted in the washroom by a pretty maiden! Poor me! How shall I ever survive?!" Alistair gasped in mock alarm, arms raised in defense.    
  
"Be gone, you! I don't want your horrible, sweaty armpits stinking up my sleeping quarters!" she chimed, flinging a towel at him. "And get a haircut, you filthy hippy!"   
  
Catching the towel with one quick movement, Alistair flashed her a cheeky grin, laughing heartily as he made his leave and turned out of the cavernous dorm, heading down the hallway.   
  
  
As the girl's dormitory disappeared from view, he rounded a corner and descended a small flight of stairs, heading in the direction of the boy's washroom. A grimace spread across his face at the thought of the communal baths. Sure, they were all men here but it didn't make his life any easier, especially given the unpredictable nature of his body these days.   
  
As he twisted the handle, he was somewhat relieved to find the large, tiled room was sparsely populated. He undressed quickly, leaving his soiled garments in a heap on one of the wooden benches before stepping naked into one of the gigantic steel bathtubs that dotted the room.   
  
He hissed loudly as the icy water lapped at his bare skin. It was such a horrid sensation, one that painfully reminded him of those few short years living in Redcliffe Castle. He sighed deeply. At least in the Chantry, the water always ran clear.   
  
He sat in the tub for a short while, absently playing with a rubber ducky one of the junior initiates had left resting on a nearby shelf full of toiletries. His body quickly adapted to the cold and as he reached for a bar of soap, he couldn't help but think about Shayla's threat.   
  
Part of him secretly wanted to overstay his welcome, if only to see if she'd truly come barrelling through the door to drag him out by the hair but he knew she wasn't that devious. As perverted as the young half-elf could be, she was generally all talk and no action.   
  
Still, Alistair couldn't help but wonder about the view that had greeted him when he woke up.   
Aside from seeing her small, round bum clad in a scandalously teeny pair of pants, he had also caught a brief glimpse of a mess of whip-marks and lacerations on her back and shoulders.   
  
It was only a tiny flash of bruised flesh but it was enough to make Alistair's brow furrow at the thought. Whippings were virtually unheard of in Redcliffe Chantry, reserved only for the most unrepentant of sinners but even then, most of the sisters generally favored a series of stiff bamboo canes to meet punishments.   
  
He cast his mind back, trying to recall a time when he'd ever seen her get into such an immense amount of trouble as to warrant such a brutal punishment. Nothing sprung to mind but the odd breach of curfew, botched pantry raid or use of 'unlady-like language'. All common enough offenses, each usually punished with a warning or a swift rap on the shin or knuckles.   
  
Alistair figured it must have been something that happened before they met but try as he might, getting Shayla to speak about her life before she entered the Chantry was like drawing blood from a stone: an impossible task.   
  
In part, it explained much about how he was drawn to her. The intrigue and the mystery behind those 'lost' years were a source of much curiosity to the young apprentice templar and as he worked a lather of bubbles into his chest, he resolved then to have a deep conversation about it, if only so there would be no secrets between him.   
  
His face darkened.    
  
There was  **one** secret of his that she didn't know and that was the one that burned brightest within his heart. Maker knows he'd tried countless times to tell her how he truly felt but courage seemed to be in short supply these days.   
  
"One of these days..."he thought aloud, leaning back against the smooth metal tub and letting his hair dip into the water; "One of these days I'll tell her..."   
  
"Tell her what?"    
  
A low baritone voice made Alistair jump.    
  
He blushed, pulling a washcloth over his nether regions as he watched one of his fellow initiates cross the room to occupy the tub next to his. The sandy haired teen sighed, pre-empting the strike as he caught a lump of soap in his hands just before it beaned him on the left temple.   
  
"Still chompin' at the bit with your lil' knife-eared whore?"    
  
"Don't you  **dare** call her that. Her name is Shayla." Alistair felt his teeth gnash together as Dendrick's condescending tone pierced his eardrums. The gravelly voiced teen emitted a horrid, throaty rasp that substituted a laugh, roughly splashing water onto the younger man.   
"I know her name, dingus! The question is: have you made her scream yours yet?"   
  
"Shut the hell up, you slimy git!" Alistair practically yelled; " I won't have you talking about her like that!"   
  
"Ooooh, so defensive!" Dendrick sneered, leaning over the side of his tub to roughly chuff Alistair upside the head. A wolfish grin crossed the older man's face as he watched the sandy haired teen squirm against him.   
"Can't say I blame you for having no interest, though. Who'd want to eat a peach when somebody's already had a bite?"   
  
"Shut your filthy, treacherous mouth, Dendrick! What lies are you sprouting now?!" Alistair felt his cheeks flushing with unabashed fury, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the side of the tub in a bid to keep from throwing a punch. Oh, how he hated the dark haired boy. For six years, he'd done nothing but torment him mercilessly for little to no reason and quite frankly, the tired old 'schoolyard bully' routine was starting to grate on his nerves.   
  
Alistair, for the most part, had learned to block out his incessant chirping after their first year of archery together but whenever the sly bastard dragged Shayla's name into the mud, Dendricks voice buzzed through his head at a deafening volume.   
  
"No lies, boy." Dendrick sneered, folding his arms over his dubiously hairy chest and leaning back against the cool metal of the bathtub; "Don't you know? She's damaged goods- sullied, tapped. Tainted."   
  
Alistair's brow furrowed darkly, his brown eyes narrowing to glare at the dark haired man before him. "I swear, you're just trying to goad me into another fight, aren't you? Grow up, you twat. Go pick on someone your own age for once!"   
  
"You defend her so blindly, Alistair..." Dendrick chuckled darkly, reaching for a bar of soap on a nearby shelf; "...If only you knew what she gets up to when you're not around. Heh. Like mother, like daughter- a half-breed runt born of a whore-"   
  
" **ENOUGH!** "    
  
Alistair sprung to his feet, almost slipping on the soapy base of the bathtub as he did so. Glaring menacingly at Dendrick, he raised one finger to point it directly into his smug, sneering face, lips pulled back into a vicious snarl.   
  
"If you so much as  **think** one more ill word about her, so help me, I will cover you with ham and throw you to the Mabaris!"   
  
Dendrick arched an eyebrow, his eyes quickly scanning the agitated teen's body; "Is that supposed to be a threat? Honestly, it'd be a lot more intimidating if you were wearing a suit of armor, brandishing a sword instead of standing before me bollock naked!"   
  
Alistair's jaw clenched so tight he could've sworn he felt his ears pop. His breath came in ragged, angry bursts, exhaled through his nose as he fought back the urge to throttle the bastard. Instead, he yanked the soap from the dark haired man's hand and grabbed a handful of hair, causing Dendrick to yell out in alarm.   
  
Wasting no time, he rammed the bar of soap into his open mouth and shoved him hard into the heavy brass taps jutting from the wall. A muffled yell reverberated off the tiles, followed by a loud splash as Dendrick lunged for him, eyes raw with rage as he attempted to tackle the youngster for his actions.   
  
With the quickened reflexes born from his years spent studying the art of combat, Alistair ducked out of the way, causing Dendrick to skid, lose his balance and trip on the wet floor.    
  
"You little  **fucker..!** " he screamed, making a grab for the sandy haired teen's ankle as he flailed wildly on the slippery tiles.    
  
With a growl, Alistair mustered up all the strength in his body and with one swift, well-aimed kick, drove his foot hard into Dendrick's groin.   
  
The scream that followed was loud enough to shake the dust from the rafters.   
  
Even so, Alistair didn't want to stick around for the aftershock, knowing fully well that he'd be paying for his little stand-off before long in their next class together. He was not looking forward to that. Wrapping his towel around his waist, Alistair swiftly exited the washroom, sprinting quickly down the hallway towards the boy's dorm, not caring for anyone who may have seen him in his semi-clad state.   
  
His mind was clouded with fury, running off the adrenaline. As he quickly reached his bed, he crashed down hard onto the lumpy mattress, ignoring the sound of the springs as they lurched in protest. He panted hard, breath unsteady and fast as his chest felt tight with anger.   
  
It wasn't the first time he'd heard someone say such cruel things about her.   
  
Far from it. He heard many whispers along the Chantry halls-the cowardly insults and thinly veiled talks among the shadows.  _ Such narrow minded people... _ he thought bitterly, his breathing slowing to a steady rate as the adrenaline eased off;  _ Who are they to judge? _   
  
Swallowing back a scornful lump in his throat, he rose from the bed, fishing through his footlocker for some clothing. Once he was adequately dressed, he stood against one of the mirrors resting in the far corner of the dorm, scrutinizing his appearance.   
  
_ Well done. The bastard prince has done it again: screwing up attempts at teenage romance and earning the wrath of schoolyard bullies. Oh, yes... another fine mess you've gotten yourself into this time, Alistair... _   
  
He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching under the strain. Such passion was frowned upon within these walls: passion for love, passion for the fight, passion for causing a scene. He knew all too well that a beating would be on the cards tonight-Dendrick was a little rat like that-but it was nothing compared to the mental beating he would give himself night after night when he'd failed yet again to get his thoughts out into the open.   
  
Resting his forehead against the cool glass, he closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the ghosts of tears.  _ No... big boys don't cry. Stop it at once. Stop it, Alistair, you child..! _   
  
The dormitory door swung open with a loud creak, causing him to look up.   
  
He sighed.    
  
There she was, a vision in green cotton, her hair loose on her shoulders, oblivious to the effects she was having on him. Her footsteps made no sound as she crossed the room to stand by his side, her ice-colored eyes looking upon him with curiosity.   
  
"Hey. I was beginning to worry about you! You ready to go?" her voice was light, chirpy and full of promise at what the day would bring. He looked at her then, forcing his face into a smile and hoping she wouldn't see the helplessness in his eyes.   
  
_ "Ready as I'll ever be..." _   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The sun was already high in the sky when the two teenagers set foot outside the Chantry gate.

  
It was a clear day to be had and mercifully, the ungodly chill of the morning had given way to a pleasantly warm breeze that tickled their necks as they walked.   
The market was in full swing, the sound of traders hawking their wares punctuating the air, mingling with the sounds of clucking chickens, rambunctious children and wayward Chantry-schooled teens, each one glad to be free for the weekend.   
  
"So, where to first?" Shayla mused, glancing up at the Chanter's board as they passed by. Her eyes scanned over the many dog-eared, sun-burnt notices pinned to the cork-board, searching for anything of interest.   
  
"Lady's choice..." Alistair muttered, staring down at his feet. His mind was askew, lingering too much on the scenes of that morning to truly give her his full, undivided attention.   
  
The red-head frowned at this, folding her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall.   
"Alright, what's wrong? You've been acting mopey all morning!" she said with exasperation, glancing upon him with a wary expression.   
  
Alistair's head snapped up, his eyebrows arched in surprise.   
"Mopey? Moi?"    
  
"Spit it out, then. What's on your mind?"   
  
"Nothing, Shayla. It's nothing... I'm just wondering.." he hesitated slightly, a hand moving to scratch at the back of his head as he searched for a plausible explanation of his morose demeanor. As soon as his hands touched against the tangled strands of dirty blonde, he managed to force out a smile. "..Ahhh, m-maybe I should go get a haircut! Yes... I think a mullet might suit me!" he chuckled breezily, hoping she wouldn't see through his ruse.   
  
"A  **mullet** ? Andraste's frilly knickers, Alistair! Why on earth would you want to make yourself look like an even bigger idiot than usual?"   
  
_ That's it. Poke fun. Distract me _ . His smile widened into a toothy grin.   
"Oh, you know me. A glutton for punishment, as always!"   
  
"And cheese. Don't forget the cheese!"   
  
"Oh, yes. I do love my cheeses!"    
At this, Alistair's stomach gave an almighty rumble, as though reminding him of that fact.   
  
Clearing his throat, he ignored the hunger pang for the time being, clapping his hands together and rubbing them absently.   
"Right-o! Are you going to come with me to see me ruin my hair for the sake of a good giggle?"   
  
"As much as the thought of seeing you getting shaved bald is most amusing, I think I'll pass for now. I'm absolutely starving, pet!" Shayla replied, smiling in spite of herself as her hands went for her turbulent stomach; "You go on ahead. I'll meet you back in the tavern."   
  
"You sure?"   
  
"Go. I'll be fine. It's not like you need me to hold your hand anymore!"   
  
"B-But! The straight razors...!" Alistair's eyes widened at the thought of those vicious-looking shaving instruments, recalling with horror the last time he dared ask for a hot towel shave. Even now, the small scar on his chin was a testament to that horrifying ordeal. "I'm not comfortable with having sharp pointy things so close to my throat, y'know."   
  
"You'd make a  **fine** templar with that attitude." Shayla replied sarcastically, poking him lightly in the ribs.

"Go. Be a big manly templar. I'll have a pint waiting for you when you get back."  
  
"Shayla, you know I'm a minor...!"  
  
"Pfft. You **have** met me, right? Corrupting innocent young Chantry boys is my sole lot in life!" Shayla smirked, her hands resting on her hips as she spoke, a familiar twinkle of mischief in her eyes. A low groan escaped Alistair's lips as he hunched forward, touching his forehead to hers as he bent his knees slightly.  
  
"I swear, you're going to be the death of me one of these days!"  
  
"True, but at least you'll die a happy death- drunk and merry!" she giggled, reaching to gently ruffle his hair.   
  
As her fingers slipped through the sand-colored locks, she felt a slight tinge of sadness at the prospect of losing those soft, wheaten strands to a barber's shears. Granted, he'd been sporting the same shaggy mane for as long as she'd known him and was well overdue for a change of style but it didn't make it any less saddening to her.  
  
He was changing, slowly but surely, right before her eyes. Puberty was both a blessing and a curse. A curse for the obvious reasons-acne, hair in strange places, overworked sweat glands-but it also worked in mysterious ways, the hormones creating such a potent mix within them both that it was little wonder they could even think straight. A blessing for that magical mixture made her see him differently, see the man he had become.  
  
Shayla couldn't help but smile. He was still in the grips of a hormonal battlefield, no doubt.   
It was painfully obvious in his shy demeanor and ill-guarded attempts at deflecting it with witty banter. Inwardly, she wondered about the thoughts swirling through his head-if his experience was anything like what she went through herself, it was little wonder he hadn't yet been struck by lightning.  
  
"Keep my seat warm for me, yeah?" he said chirpily, snapping her back to reality.  
  
"Ahh, sure, sure. I'll see you in a little bit, yes?" she simpered, her hand quickly dropping to her side as her cheeks turned scarlet. He nodded once, pulling away from her before giving a quick wave as he headed in the direction of the village barbershop. As he swiftly disappeared from view,   
Shayla sighed deeply and seated herself on the edge of the small fountain in the centre of the square.  
  
Reaching into her satchel bag, she plucked out one of the many letters she had received in the wee hours, her fingers thumbing the wax seal. Whilst Alistair snored quietly beneath the sheets that morning, she had sorted through her mail, discarding most of it as junk and miscellany to deal with some other time-that was, until she came across the thick, weighty stationary resting in her hands.  
  
The envelope was crisp, pearly white and fresh, contrasting heavily against the sand-covered, well-traveled envelopes she was normally privy to.  
  
She knew what it was the moment she laid eyes upon the seal.  
  
It was the same letter each potion-maker received, regardless of how well they hid their magical inclinations. She knew exactly what it meant too, but her mind refused to process the thought.  
  
 _No. I can't bear it. I simply refuse to believe it..._ she thought wistfully, her eyes scrutinizing the thick red seal that shielded the letter's contents from prying eyes.  
  
The signature in the wax stared up at her, almost mocking her plight.  
  
  
 ** _Irving..._**   
  


* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

  
"What do you  **mean** my mullet looks ridiculous?!" Alistair's voice rose an octave, his face aghast as he watched Shayla convulse with laughter; "I paid 15 silvers for this haircut, y'know!"   
  
"Well, you certainly got your money's worth!" the red-haired woman snorted in between fits of giggles. Maker helped him, he was an amusing sight to behold: his hair was cropped short all over save for a small tuff at the base of his neck that still retained the shaggy length of old, hanging limp over his shoulders. Compared to the uneven, poorly cut chucks of hair that made up the rest of the style, he looked as though he'd lost a fight with a scissor-wielding Gemlock.   
  
A snort of derision escaped Alistair's nose as he stuck it up in defiance.   
"Hmph! You're just jealous because my hair is awesome and smells like strawberries!" To further emphasise his point, he gave a theatrical hair-flip.   
  
"I swear to Androste, you have  **got** to be the biggest dork I've ever met!"   
  
"Guilty as charged!"   
  
"Ugh... let's just order some food, hmm? I'm so hungry I could eat a Halla!"   
With a roll of her eyes, Shayla shook her head, moving to flag down a waitress. A small, stocky young Dwarven woman dressed in a traditional beer hall costume came rushing to their table at once, all smiles and courtesy.   
  
"Hi, there! Welcome to Redcliffe Tavern. Are you ready to order?"   
  
Alistair gave a little nod, his cheeks flushing slightly as the waitress flashed him a toothy smile.   
"Uhh.. y-yes! I'll have the cheese steak sandwich with extra lashings of Dalish blue, please!"   
  
The waitress nodded, scribbling a note down on her order pad. "Sure thing!" she cooed before turning to glance towards Shayla; "And for yourself, milady?"   
  
"I'll have the daily special, please, and can I get two tankards of your strongest Dwarven ale? Preferably of the paint stripper variety." the half-elf replied, holding up two fingers, her brows arched. The waitress gave a small nod, taking up their menus without a fuss before scooting away to process the order.    
  
As he watched the young woman scurry back into the kitchen, his brow furrowed in bewilderment.   
"Dwarven ale? At this time of the day?"   
  
"What? It's not like I'm breaking a law or anything. I  **am** eighteen, you know."   
  
"Yes~, but  **I'm** not." Alistair replied, casting her a frown. It wasn't like her to order alcohol with a meal, much less that of the Dwarvian variety so it was only natural that he questioned her motives- especially considering she was about to rope him into the barely-legal drinking. His liver quivered at that thought.   
  
"Oh, please, like that's ever stopped you before! You could easily pass for a twenty-something with your current appearance!" she sniffed, leaning back against the cushioned boot, a wry smirk pulling the corners of her mouth.   
  
"What are you saying? That this haircut makes me look  **old** ?!"   
  
"No, it makes you look like the village idiot. The fact that you're practically  **twice** my own height makes you look a heckuva lot older. Don't take it personally. Most people would kill to be able to drink before the law dictates!"   
  
"True... but still, the last thing I'd want is to stumble back home to the Chantry and throw up over Sister Emile's shoes...I can't comprehend for the life of me how you can possibly drink that gut-rot without even _wincing!_ "   
  
Shayla chuckled softly, folding her arms behind her head as she studied her companion.    
It was true-she did have a knack for ignoring the burning taste of Orzammar's finest ale at the best of times. As soon as she'd turned eighteen, she wasted no time in getting fully acquainted with the dark, foul-smelling liquid that happily killed off her brain cells. It was fairly straightforward once you knew the basics: tilt your head back, don't let it touch your tongue, swallow indiscriminately and hold on to the table lest the world start spinning.    
  
"You have much to learn, young grasshopper. There's a fine science to drinking that you've yet to be versed in."   
  
"And I suppose  **you'd** like to be the one to enlighten me?"   
  
"What?" she teased, propping her elbows on the table as she leaned in close to gaze upon him; "Afraid I'll get you roaring drunk, drag you into the Mabari kennels and pop your precious little cherry?"   
  
Alistair's jaw dropped, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates.   
"Maker's breath! Do you ever hear yourself speak?! No wonder Dendrick's been spreading lies all over Redcliffe!"   
  
Shayla jumped at that, recoiling as though he'd just slapped her across the face. Her face drained of color and her impish grin was replaced with a slack-jawed look of utmost revulsion.   
"What has that little toerag been saying now?" she growled, brows furrowing.   
  
The sandy haired teen exhaled in a deep sigh, a hand reaching to scratch at the unkempt, choppy locks at the back of his head. "Oh, just the usual bile: insulting your heritage, calling your mother a whore- all unfounded nastiness, really."   
  
The waitress returned with their food, setting down heavy plates before them. Nodding a thanks, Alistair took a hefty bite from his steak sandwich, savoring briefly the delectable taste.   
"I've no idea what's gotten into him lately but needless to say, I gave him what for."   
  
Shayla emitted a low groan, fingers rubbing at her temples.   
"Alistaaiiir... what did you do to him?"   
  
He paused, sandwich half-way to his lips as he frowned.   
"Why should you care? You said it yourself- he's a disgusting little toerag with nothing better to do than spread outright lies-"   
  
"I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Alistair!" Shayla snapped, stabbing at a lump of chicken on her plate, her eyes narrowing at him as she ate it quickly. "Whilst I appreciate the sentiment, I think I can handle a little pleb like Dendrick without getting you involved."   
  
He huffed at that, tearing an unnecessarily large chunk out of his sandwich.   
"Well  **excuse** me for trying to defend your honor, milady! If that's the attitude I can expect when I try to stand up for you, perhaps I'll think twice in the future!"   
  
They continued to eat in uneasy silence, tension permeating the air. Shayla could only grimace as she pecked through her food, her appetite deserting her as her stomach curled into a knot. She hated this- the foolish pride that stopped her from simply saying thank you for his good intentions.   
Try as she might, she just couldn't allow herself to let her guard down that much, to accept help in combating the seemingly eternal onslaught of verbal attacks on her person.   
  
She knew exactly what they all said when they thought she was out of ear-shot. The lies, the slander, the rumors. She knew every single accursed word spewed about her mixed race blood, the speculation of her past and the gossip that hovered in the air like a particularly unpleasant stench.   
  
Throwing her fork down, she pushed her plate aside, turning to glare out of the window, her thoughts murderous and malicious as she tried to stem the growing anger bubbling inside of her.   
  
_ It's not Alistair you're annoyed at, Shayla. Nor is it anything to do with Dendrick or those other little vultures... _ she thought to herself, her fingers drumming in agitation against the table top.   
  
Irving's letter still played on her mind and along with the notion of being slandered by some pathetic waste of flesh and sinew, it was little wonder she was beginning to feel stressed. Exhaling in a growl, she reached for the tankard of ale set before her, taking a formidable gulp of the bitter liquid to quell the rawness of her nerves.   
  
The alcohol singed her throat as it trickled down to her stomach but the sensation did little to sway her. If anything, she felt mildly cleansed by the Dwarvian fire water and she set the half-empty tankard down once more on the table, she felt some of her composure return to her.   
  
As she breathed slowly, she was startled to feel Alistair's hand rest atop her own. Looking up, her pale eyes met his dark gaze. He gave her soft squeeze, his expression sorrowful.   
"Shay..." he said softly, his thumb gently rubbing over her knuckles; "I'm sorry if I jumped the cannon on this one. I just... the things he was saying. I couldn't stand by and let him get away with that kind of carry on."   
  
Her expression softened somewhat. "It's okay, Ali. I'm just... just stressed out right now. Got a lot on my plate..."   
  
At this, the sandy haired teen blinked, eyes falling upon the plate of half-eaten chicken.   
"If you can't finish your food, pass it here! No sense letting it go to waste!"   
  
Shayla pursed her lips, shrugging his hand away as she used it to pinch the bridge of her nose.   
"That's  **not** what I meant. Idiot..."   
  
"Oh.." Alistair felt his cheeks flush at his little slip; "...what  **did you** mean, then?"   
  
He watched her closely, studying her face. He was alarmed to find a look of helplessness upon it- a look that seemed unnatural against her fiery nature. He watched as she swallowed back a lump in her throat, taking another swig from her tankard as if steeling herself for something.   
Her hands seemed to tremble. From nerves or alcohol, Alistair wasn't quite sure and as she pulled her satchel onto the table to search within it, a tiny chill rippled up his spine as he caught an all-too-rare glimpse of her vulnerable side.   
  
Shayla rumaged quickly through the contents of her tan leather bag, tossing aside a few ragged scraps of paper and miscellaneous junk before she found it- that tiny little envelope that held such significance. Pulling it free from an internal pocket, she dropped it on the table as though the paper had burnt her fingers, letting it slap against the wood right before Alistair.   
  
"This was in the pile this morning. I...I know what it is, but I'm afraid to open it."   
  
"Shayla...?"    
  
Alistair stared at the little envelope before him, a lump forming in his throat, not at all dissimilar to the one he choked back when she had unwrapped the mysterious set of trinkets earlier that day.   
He exhaled slowly, a hand moving to trail over the thick wax seal.  **Irving,** read it.   
  
The name of the Circle Tower's high enchanter.   
  
"Do you.. do you want me to open it for you?" he whispered, his hand upon hers once more. Her breath caught in her throat as she steadied herself, her eyes silently pleading with him.   
  
"Yes... let's get it over with. Like ripping off a bandage..."   
  
He nodded once, sliding his index figure under the edges of paper. With one little flex, the seal broke, bits of red wax flecking the tabletop. With unsteady hands, he slowly reached in and fished out the folded rectangle of parchment, spreading it out with baited breath. He cast an unsure glance at the young red-head but she simply nodded, urging him to continue.   
  
Alistair cleared his throat once and began to read aloud, his voice soft.   
  
_ "Dear Miss Yelenei, _ _   
_ _ I hope this letter finds you well. I would first like to extend my congratulations on hearing of your successful acquisition of your Herbalism and Apothecary qualifications. Here at Lake Calenhad, such skills are looked upon with great interest and I have no doubt that they shall be well utilized in the near future. However, this is not simply a letter marking your achievements. _

_ It has come to my attention that over the course of your eleven years studying in Redcliffe Chantry , you have displayed some degree of magical inclination.  _ _   
_ _ Revered Sister Emile tells me also that you have recently turned eighteen. I trust then that you know what is required of you under these circumstances. _ _   
_ _ It is high time for you to move onto pastures new and begin honing your magical skills in a place better befitting a woman of your talents. On the morning of August 10th, a convoy shall be dispatched to Redcliffe so as to safely escort you to Lake Calenhad. It is my hope that you accept a place in our esteemed training academy in good grace and look upon this letter as one of great opportunities. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Once more, I congratulate you on your recent achievements and wish you all the success that the future has to offer. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Kind regards, _ _   
_ _   
_ **_Irving,_ ** _   
_ _   
_ _ First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. _   
  
  
Alistair's blood ran cold.   
  
He read and re-read the letter inwardly to himself, the words struggling to register in his mind.  _ A convoy shall be dispatched on August 10th... _ that was only two days from now. His hands shook as the realization hit him like a Shield Bash to the skull.   
  
She was leaving.    
  
The tone of the letter was breezy but the young templar could easily read between the lines. It was not a letter of invite. It was one of summoning, a demand even and as he drank in the words written in indelible, arching scripture upon the rough parchment, he felt his chest tighten at the prospect of her absence.   
  
"Shayla...tell me it's not true.." he gasped, his hand tightening around hers as his eyes burned into those two pools of icy water. He could see the tears beginning to form behind them but, prideful as ever, she refused to let them fall. Instead, she moved to thread her fingers with his, her teeth catching her bottom lip in that same nervous tick she always displayed.   
  
It would've been alluring if the situation hadn't been so horrifying.   
  
"I can't..." she whispered softly, her grip tightening ever so slightly. She could feel the vice-like pressure form deep inside her chest but she ignored it, urging herself to stay calm. She had known what the letter would entail simply from catching the embossed signature of the wax but hearing the contents, hearing Irving's words loud and clear as a bell as Alistair's low voice punctured the tension in the air, it was almost too much to take.   
  
She lifted her tankard to her lips once more, knocking back the last of the ale in a bid to drown out the buzzing in her head. She didn't want to acknowledge it, the hurtful truth:   
  
She had to leave Redcliffe behind.   
  
Leave  **him** behind.   
  
The vice-grip tightened painfully around her heart and it was all she could do to avert her gaze, lest she outright burst into tears at that very moment. She stiffened in her seat, pulling her hand away as she moved once more flag down a waitress.   
  
"We're going to need a  **shit-load** of ale..."   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Suffice to say, the two teens never did get to hit the market stalls that evening. The majority of the day was spent in the darkness of the tavern, each of them drowning their respective sorrows with potent mixtures of Dwarven ale and cheese steak sandwiches, only slowing when they eventually ran low on coins.   
  
Alistair's head was swimming with a combination of shock, disbelief and five pints of house brew and as he quietly urged the room to stop spinning, he could feel a horrible gurgle ripple through his gut.   
  
"So, what now?" he hiccupped, forcing back a belch as he cleansed his palette with a pint glass of water; "You're just going to leave without a fuss?"   
  
"'Course not!" Shayla retorted, punctuating her words with a loud belch; "I fully intend to shirk my responsibilities, as usual!" she raised her tankard high, swaying slightly as she knocked back the last dregs of the ale like a seasoned pro, caring not that half of it slopped down her front.   
  
"Let's run away together! We'll rob a horse, ride out to Orlais and spend our days eating cake and living in sin!"   
  
"Oh, that sounds _lovely...!_ " Alistair sighed, eyes glazed at the thought of living out the rest of his life in a country famous for its' endless variety of cheeses. He swallowed back the last of his water, setting the glass down hard on the table and rose, swaying slightly as the blood rushed back to his legs.   
  
"Shame it's little more than a wildly outlandish fantasy."   
  
"Don't tread on my dreams, Alistair! I'm serious! Let's run away. Tonight. Leave this backwater town once and for all!"Shayla cried, wobbling unsteadily as she rose from her own seat, her hands reaching out to grasp at the young man's shoulders in a bid to keep from stumbling.   
  
He sighed at this, one arm winding around her waist as he maneuvered her towards the doorway.   
"By the Maker, you've had far too much to drink!"   
  
"Why the hell are you still sober? No fair!" she groaned, squinting as her eyes were bombarded with the sudden onslaught of sunset, the sky tinged with orange and purple as night began to fall.   
  
"Hey, I stuck to the mead all night!  **You're** the one who was necking Orzammar's finest like it was going out of fashion! Honestly! I've never seen you put it away like that before and quite frankly, I'm amazed that you can still talk, much less stand...!"   
  
"I'm not as think as you drunk! ...Wait..." she hiccoughed, wincing as the alcohol repeated on her.    
  
An exasperated sigh escaped Alistair's lips at this.    
  
It wasn't like her to get so hopelessly bladdered but he understood her reasons for it. He himself was even guilty of attempting to drown out the pain but at least he knew his own limitations. Steering her in the direction of the Chantry, he felt a tinge of worry, hoping the sisters wouldn't notice her inebriated state. It was bad enough with the threat of a retribution for Dendrick resting on his conscience without the added worry for Shayla's welfare.   
  
As they stumbled towards the cobbled path back towards the village square, Shayla glanced over his shoulder, noticing the windmill at the top of a nearby hill. She turned so suddenly that Alistair nearly fell head-first down the steep slope but he managed to catch himself in time.   
  
"What on earth-?"   
  
"C'mon! I don't want to go back to the Chantry just yet..." she hicced, coughing slightly as the taste of alcohol receded from her throat.    
  
Alistair cast her an unsure look.   
"Shayla, we're already close to breaching curfew as it is. The knights will come for us if we dawdle and trust me, you don't want them catching you drunk, if what I've heard is at all true.."   
  
"Alistair, please!" Her voice was insistent, pleading, and it caught the teen off-guard. She hiccoughed once, her face heavy with regret and as she pinched the bridge of her nose, he could see she was still harbouring the stress of hours past.    
  
He groaned, a pang of guilt gnawing at his mind.    
  
"Shayla..."    
  
"Please.. I just don't want to go back to that place for a while. Let me savor my freedom...or what little of it I have left." her voice was so quiet, quivering slightly as she began to sober in the cool breeze, the words of Irvings letter-previously muted by the ale- slowly rising in volume. She winced as the buzzing resumed, resisting the urge not to pull out clumps of her hair in frustration.   
  
"Alright...we'll go up to the windmill for a spell...but let's be back before nightfall.  **You** might not take the threat of a caning seriously but  **I** certainly do!" Alistair retorted, crinkling his brows as she punched the air in triumph.   
  
_ Maker help me... _   
  
  
They walked onward in silence save for a few panted breaths as they struggled against the unforgiving height. After several minutes, they'd successfully conquered the top and as he watched Shayla dash towards the rickety wooden door, he wondered what on earth could possibly appeal to her about the ramshackled old building.   
  
He stepped inside, joining her within the small circular room of peeling plaster and crumbling bricks. His nerves flared slightly. The only light came from a sizable hole in the roof, casting a silvery beam across a floor strewn with dead leaves, dried in stains of questionable origin and rotten cardboard boxes. In one corner, a large pile of discarded animal pelts sat up against the wall.   
  
"Gimme a hand with these, would you?" Shayla asked softly, moving to tug at a large bearskin at the bottom of the pile. Alistair blinked in bewilderment but did as she asked, helping her to spread the pelt across a clear spot on the floor, layering the skins until the musty wooden slats were covered by a veritable carpet of fur.   
  
With a flick of her wrist, Shayla ignited a steel barrel full of rotting wood and at once, the room took on a different atmosphere. The orange glow blasted away the stark silver beams of the emerging moon and she lay down upon the soft pelt, her eyes focused on the sky above, already beginning to darken as the sun sank quickly into horizon.   
  
Seating herself upon the pile of animal pelts, she stretched out fully, her joints cracking faintly as she took in the view, framed by the jagged square hole in the roof. Stars were beginning to reveal themselves as evening gave way to night and as she folded her arms behind her head, a wave of calm washed over her.   
  
It had been years since she last laid down and looked at the stars like this. As a child, she would frequently seek the solace of the abandoned mill, hiding among the pelts and dead foliage so as to escape the sorrow and loneliness of the world outside the door.   
  
This was her happy place, her sanctum for when things got too much to bear. Rare as it was when she would get a moment to visit it, she was glad then of Alistair's presence. It was a cathartic experience: a merging of old with new- her past sanctuary and her present joined together under one roof.   
  
"That's quite a view..." Alistair mused, seating himself beside her as he watched her eyes drink in the night. "Funny... the stars seem bigger somehow in the frame..."   
  
"Mmhm..." Shayla sighed contentedly, shifting closer to her and resting her head against his shoulder. "I used to come here all the time when I was a little girl. It's a good place to think, to meditate and forget my troubles. It's been so long, though.... I didn't think it would have the same effect."   
  
Laying down flat against the warm furs, Alistair studied her for a moment, curiosity etched on his face. "You never talked much about your life before the Chantry...or your family." he asked slowly, gauging her reaction. She turned to look at him, her face stoney.   
  
"What's there to tell? My mother didn't want me and my father wasn't around enough to protect me from her vicious tongue.." her voice was bitter as her hands clenched and unclenched involuntarily, her jaw set in a hard line.  "...Or the sting of her whip. Gods, she was a fiend for that bloody whip..."   
  
Alistair gasped in alarm, his hand moving to press lightly against her shoulder.   
"You mean.. those marks on your back-?!"   
  
"Saw those, did you? Tch.. and I try so hard to hide them..."   
  
"Shay..." his voice was a turbulent whisper, his expression filled with pain and sympathy as he gave her a gentle squeeze. "Why didn't you tell me? If I'd have known..."   
  
"What could you have possibly done, Alistair? These wounds are from a time long before I ever met you. I'll carry them forever. I doubt if they'll ever truly heal..." her voice was low and calm, detached even but she steeled herself to continue, a strange feeling of becoming unburdened flooding her senses.    
  
She felt Alistair shuffle towards her, his hip brushing her own and as he pulled her into a comforting embrace, she was startled to find her lashes wet as she blinked.   
  
"I'm so sorry..." he whispered, gently stroking her hair as the gravity of her words weighed down on his heart. He could feel her shivering with suppressed tears and as he held her closer, he felt his own threaten to spill down his face.   
  
"You are the only source of happiness in my life... and now I have to forsake you, give up everything all because of some stupid law about unauthorized magic.   
I can't do it, Alistair. I-I want to be strong and face this thing head on but I can't. The thought of leaving all this behind, of...of leaving  **you behind** ... I can't bare it...."   
  
"Then don't!" He gasped, gazing hard into her eyes, his voice frantic; "Even if it means going on the run for the rest of your life, say no! We'll steal that horse! We'll leave Ferelden and lead lives of our own-!"    
  
Her fingers cut him off mid-sentence as she silenced him, meeting his gaze with a tearful glance. Her hand trailed down over his lips, over his jaw and down past his collar-bone, coming to rest over his heart.   
  
"If I could hand back these accursed powers so I could go on living, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Alas, things are never that simple. I _hate_ this. I hate that I have to leave Redcliffe...." she closed her eyes, burying her face into the nape of his neck as she struggled to hold back an anguished sob.   
  
"...I hate the fact that I might never see you again!"   
  
"You don't know that, Shay." Alistair said feverishly, cupping her chin and forcing her to look at him; "Lake Calenhad isn't far from here. Mark my words, I'll complete my training, ride up to that godforsaken tower on a white horse and rescue you from your captors. I swear to the Maker! I'll see to it that you don't have to spend the rest of your life in a prison of a fool's making."   
  
"Like Prince Charming?" she couldn't help but snicker in spite of herself.   
  
"Ahh, I was thinking along the lines of a white knight-all manly jaw and Juggernaut Armour..."   
  
"And swishy golden hair. That smells of strawberries...!"   
  
A helpless chuckle escaped his lips at that and he hugged her tighter, his hands nestling against the small of her back. "That'll be the first thing you'll miss, I'd wager: my delectable fruitiness!"   
  
"Let's not talk about what I'll miss the most..." she whispered, her hand moving once more to his face. He blushed as her fingers traced the line of his neck, sweeping over his jaw to brush against the curve of his cheek.   
  
"Ahh.."   
  
"Please." She breathed, moving to close the gap between them. "Not another blessed word..."   
  
And that was it.   
  
Her lips were upon his, the warmth of her breath tickling his mouth. He gasped in alarm, unused to the sensation as she kissed him. His shoulders stiffened slightly unsure of himself and as she raked her fingers through his lopsided mess of hair, a jolt of lightning ricocheted up his spine to ignite his senses.  _ Androste...! Andraste's...frilly knickers...! _ he thought wildly, eyes veiling as she kneaded her fingers against the sandy locks.   
  
Gulping slightly, he dared to move his hands from her back to her waist, fearful of how she might react. He was surprised to find that she gave a little moan of appreciation deep inside her throat, her mouth opening slightly to catch his bottom lip and give it a tiny nibble.   
  
Once more he gasped, the lightning intensifying as his mouth tingled with pleasure. Before he even had a chance to react, however, he felt something brush against his teeth, warm and wet, demanding entrance. Shocked, he hastily pulled back, wide eyed and slack-jawed.   
  
"Wh-wh-wh-what are you  **doing** ..?!" he squeaked, a hand darting to his mouth as he looked upon her incredulously.  **Did she..? Did she just stick her tongue in my mouth?!**   
  
"What's wrong?" she queried, confused, her brows knitting.    
  
"Y-y-y-your tongue was..! Was..! Sacred ashes, Shayla! What  **was** that?!"   
  
At this, she stifled a giggle, playfully swatting his chest.   
"That's how people kiss in Orlais... or-or so I'm told. It's harmless, really. And most enjoyable if done with the right person..."   
  
"O-Orlaisian kisses? Where'd you pick that up?" Alistair simpered, his fingertips repeatedly brushing his lips as though he were frightened they might fall from his face. Considering the jolts of pleasure that surged through him as she kissed him in such a wanton way, that possibility seemed ever more likely.   
  
"I-er... read it in a book once..." Shayla averted her gaze, her cheeks hued in pink. "But that's not important. What matters is... did you  **enjoy it** ?"   
  
"I...! I don't know if I should say yes to that..."   
  
"It's okay..." she said soothingly, her hand stroking the small of his skull in comfort; "...I won't judge you if you do."   
  
"Shayla... you-you have no idea how much I've wanted to kiss you...but not like that. I.. I never even knew that such a way existed. Forgive me... you caught me with my mouth open..." Alistair averted his gaze, suddenly feeling sheepish at his utter lack of experience in the field of snogging.   
  
"Interesting choice of words..."   
  
"Meh-heh!"   
  
"Do you want to get some air, Alistair? You're breathing pretty heavily..."   
  
"I-I'm fine!" he gasped, swallowing back several lumps that had caught in his throat. "Believe me, it has nothing to do with lack of air. I just... wow.  **Wow.** That was.. intense!"   
  
A troubled smile crossed Shayla's lips. Before she could stop herself, she heard the words tumbling free from her traitorous lips. "That? That was nothing. There are things I could do to you that would make your bones turn to jelly."   
  
_ Please tell me I did not just say that! _ She inwardly kicked herself, grimacing slightly.  _ Nooo, bad Shayla! Very bad Shayla! Stop trying to pop the innocent young Chantry cherry! _   
  
"Th-things?" Alistair squeaked, bewilderment in his voice; "Wh-what kind of things?"   
  
Shayla swallowed.    
  
She could scarcely believe what she was considering. Sure, it would be a lovely, pleasant memory to have of him and Maker knew he certainly cared enough about her to possibly indulge her but something about the notion of laying with him made her feel..well, _dirty._   
It was as though the thought of claiming his purity would somehow diminish his innocence. As strong as the love she felt for him was, doubt settled in her mind over whether or not she should give into that one niggling little urge...   
  
"Nothing. Never mind. Forget it...you're too young anyways.." she murmured, feeling ashamed for thinking such sinful thoughts. Orlasian kisses were one thing. Taking him sweetly in the abandoned windmill was quite another.   
  
"Too young for what? Shayla...are you...?" Alistair's face drained of color as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks; "You're talking about... about  **that, aren't** you? Oh, lord..."   
  
"Y-Yes, Ali. I'm talking about... about.." she clenched her eyes shut, wincing as the words left her lips. "Coupling... knocking boots. Popping your cherry, so to speak..."   
  
Alistair recoiled in horror. "You've  **got** to be joking...!"

  
  
_ I wish I was, Alistair. Maker help me, I wish I was... _

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

  
"Sh-Shayla...I don't know if we should..." Alistair's voice was low and timid, his face glowing as he struggled to comprehend her words. Disbelief clouded his brain. Had she truly just propositioned him? As he tried to register the thought, he found himself wondering if this was all some perverse dream, that he might wake up to see a disgusted Chantry sister hovering over him with a bucket of ice water.   
  
Maker knew he could certainly do with cooling down after that offer..   
  
"Please..." she whispered, her brows heavy as her gaze lingered upon him; "...I just want to feel something other that...other than  **this** ." she raised a hand to her chest, fingers clenching around the swatches of green cotton that caressed her bosom. The vice-grip was horrendous, numbing her senses to nothing but the pain as she struggled to breathe.   
  
Alistair tensed against her, his expression uncertain. "I..I can't. I wouldn't..." he exhaled deeply, a hand moving to run through his hair as a wrinkle of doubt appeared over his nose; "..I-wouldn't have a clue what to do..."   
  
"You don't have to take your britches off, if that's what you're afraid of.." the red-head replied in an attempt to sound breezy but the comment only served to further deepen the furrow in Alistair's brow. He shook his head gravely, one hand shakily resting against her cheek.   
  
"I-It's not like I haven't  **thought** about doing... **that** , Shay. It's just...well, this isn't exactly how I imagined things would turn out..."   
  
"What did you expect, Alistair? A bed of rose-petals and a harpist in the corner?"   
  
"W-well, no... I just.. I just thought we'd do this somewhere a little less..dusty?" He simpered, his eyes burning into hers as he blushed. He watched as a wry smirk pulled the corners of her mouth, revealing a set of small, pearly teeth.   
  
" **We** ? So you  **have** been fantazising about me all these years!" she ribbed him playfully, downplaying the nervous tremors that made her hands shake as she wound them once more around his neck. "I bloody knew it!"   
  
She felt the tendons in his neck tighten as his jaw set in a firm line. He looked at her with pleading eyes, echoing her own nervous behavior as he chewed on his bottom lip.   
"If...If I'm honest, you're really the only girl I'd even consider...." he swallowed, eyes squeezing shut in mortification; "... **c-canoodling** with.."   
  
Shayla chuckled once, moving to press her forehead to his, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over his scalp as she nuzzled him sweetly. "I'm touched, Alistair. Don't worry too much. I promise I'll make it good for you." her voice was soft, soothing to the anxious young templar but as she moved to plant another kiss upon his lips, she was surprised to feel him pull back.   
  
"You act like you've done this before..." he whispered, his tone more confused than accusatory as he shied away from her, his fingers awkwardly fidgeting with the hooks and eyelets binding together the front of his tunic.   
  
Shayla felt her stomach lurch violently. Yes, it was true she wasn't as pure as to be expected of a Chantry-raised schoolgirl but right now, she did not feel the least bit comfortable revisiting those particularly unpleasant memories.  _ No... I won't taint this night by dragging up my past... _ she thought wistfully, a hand outstretched to rest delicately against Alistair's shoulder.   
  
There was so much he didn't know, so much she hadn't told him but she was yet to muster up the courage to unburden her endless litany of regrets. Besides, what was the point of doing so? The only purpose it would've served would be to cast more misery upon the night and perhaps even traumatize the lad even further than talks of earthly delights.   
  
_ No, not this night. He's by no means ready to hear the full extent of man's cruelty... _   
  
"I read a lot.." she replied, choking back the nerves and uncertainty, hoping he wouldn't see through the blatant untruth. He glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression unreadable but said nothing, his body suddenly appearing small and mousey in the flickering light of the burning wood.   
  
"Alistair..." she whispered unsteadily, perturbed by his silence as their eyes met in the fire-light.   
"...I..." the words caught in her throat, dying on her tongue as her calm demeanor began to break away at the seams.   
  
_ Why can't I say it? I want to tell him so much... Sweet Androste, why can't I tell him? _   
  
"It's alright. I know not to pry..." he responded, his voice barely audible over the low crackle of fire; "J-just... swear to me you'll stop..if-if things get weird..."   
  
"You want to..?"   
  
He nodded once, his ears tinged with pink but he said no more. Shayla exhaled deeply, her arms tightening slightly around his neck as he dipped his head to kiss her with uncertainty. She sighed into his touch, cupping his cheeks as he pressed hesitant kisses to her lips. Wordlessly, they rolled on the animal pelts until he was above her, propping himself on his elbows.   
  
_ What the hell am I doing? _ He thought in panic, quivering slightly as he felt her part her lips slightly in invitation. Wincing, he cautiously eased the tip of his tongue into her waiting mouth, unsure of what to do. She responded kindly, her moves slow and mindful of his inexperience as she lapped him with long, lingering strokes.   
  
Alistair felt that familiar lightning bolt surge through him once more as her tongue caressed his own and as he ran his fingers through her mane of fiery red hair, he was startled at how much he ached for that strange new sensation. He pulled back slightly, gulping in a lungful of air before placing a soft kiss on her bottom lip. Then another. And another after that before all too soon, he was kissing her with feverish haste.   
  
Occasionally, little moans and sighs would escape Shayla's lips in the brief moments when they parted to intake precious oxygen and the sounds steeled him, spurring him on as he endeavored to explore every inch of her mouth with his slick appendage.   
  
"Ahhh...!" Alistair jumped slightly, suddenly aware of her hands moving down past his chest to skim over the curve of his back, fingers dipping beneath the hem of his tunic to brush against his skin. He gave a little whimper at the sensation, ceasing their feverish kisses to rest his forehead against hers.    
  
"What's wrong?" Shayla queried, licking the taste of him from her lips, her eyes following his.   
  
"I..sorry, I... I'm just...Sh-should I..?" he gulped nervously; "...Should I remove my shirt?"   
  
Shayla sat upright at this, cocking her head to one side. She smiled at his bashfulness, watching as he fumbled awkwardly with the wooden clasps holding the fabric over his chest. She nodded once, reaching out to help him along, her fingers deftly sliding the tiny pegs free of their eyelets until, little by little, the taunt flesh of his chest was revealed to her in the glowing orange light of the fire.   
  
He shivered as his flesh was exposed to the cold night air and unconsciously, he arched himself towards the warmth of her fingers. Catching her hand in his as she traced lingering patterns along the hard line of his budding pectorals, he stared at it momentarily, unable to look her directly in the eye.   
  
"Uh...can I..? Can I touch...um...can I touch your...?" Alistair stammered, embarrassed as his fingers rubbed hers, his skin flushing as he tried to articulate the thought.  _ No, I can't ask that... can I?  _ He lifted his head up a fraction of an inch, gazed focused on the loose cotton that barely concealed the curves of her chest. His mouth abruptly lost all moisture, throat constricting as he mentally visualised what lay behind the thin green fabric.   
  
Apart from catching accidental flashes of the scullery maids back when he used to tear around Redcliffe Castle at all manner of the day and night, he'd never actually seen a pair of women's breasts up-close before and as his mind drifted to thoughts of what Shayla might be concealing, he was suddenly made aware of a growing tightness below his belt.   
  
He closed his eyes then, mustering up the discipline that had been drilled into his head over six years of intensive training.  _ Don't lose sight of your manners, Alistair. Don't- _ **_Oh!_ ** He gasped, something soft brushing against his fingertips.   
"You're so adorable when you blush..." Shayla's voice was breathless, her gaze intense as she guided his hands to her bosom, watching as his eyes snapped open and a tiny squeak escaped his throat. Words failed Alistair then, his mind blank and numb to all but the feel of those two small mounds resting gently in his palms.   
  
They were smaller than he thought but by no means diminished and as he gave them an experimental squeeze, the squeal she gave indicated they were highly sensitive. Even through the relatively thick layer of cotton, he could feel the heat radiating from her form. It did little to quell the growing discomfort in his britches and as his thumbs moved cautiously to brush over her covered nubs, he thought he might come undone in a heartbeat.   
  
"Mmm... enjoying the funbags, are you?"    
  
"Ah! Y-yes. Those are... very nice..."   
  
Shayla stifled a helpless giggle. His touch was so light, so hesitant that it bordered on ghost-like.   
The sensations he elicited in her felt almost ticklish and as he further kneaded and fondled her, she gave a silent thanks to Androste for his inexperience. It was far better than getting mindlessly groped and manhandled by some drunken-  _ No. Stop that. Don't spoil the moment.  _   
  
She shook her head, hair whipping wildly behind her. At this, Alistair's hands ceased their fumbling movements. "S-something wrong? I'm not hurting you, am I?"   
  
"Not at all, pet." she breezed, a hand reaching to caress his cheek; "You're doing most admirably, if I do say so myself." Snaking her arms around his waist, she pulled him against her chest, letting her legs part just enough to have him nestle his hips in between her thighs. As the fabric hitched up over her knees, Alistair's gaze dropped to the newly exposed flesh.   
  
Fascinated and entrawled by the tantalizing glimpse of milky-white skin, he dropped a hand from one of her breasts to rake over her stomach and navel, thumbing the seams of her dress until it rested lightly on her left knee.   
  
It was there he could feel the seam of her stocking, the cotton smooth and taunt against the toned flesh of her calves. Brushing a thumb over the small, raised embroidery of the garment, Alistair felt her body quiver. With nerves, anticipation or a stifled laugh due to being exceptionally ticklish, the teen had no idea.    
  
He hesitated, his eyes meeting her with a quizzical expression.   
"What...what now?"   
  
"Hmmm?" Shayla watched him curiously, seeing the conflict in his eyes.  _ Wow. He  _ **_really_ ** _ wasn't exaggerating his inexperience... _ she thought to herself. Frowning slightly, she exhaled through her nostrils. If she was to have any fun at all tonight, she would have to take matters into her own hands. A grimace crossed her face at that thought.   
  
_ I am  _ **_far_ ** _ too young to know all this stuff... _   
  
"I-I'm not sure about this, Shay.." Alistair said shakily, eyes darting briefly to the growing mound in the crotch of his trousers, his ears blushing.    
  
"Don't be scared. It's just me, Alistair. Me, Shayla..." she swept her hand up from his wrist to his shoulder, pulling him back towards her. "I'm not going to hurt you..."

"I-I know that.." he sighed, breath uneven; "I'm just... more worried about  **you** . I've heard it can be...  **painful** for a woman. Something about their bodies..." he dropped his head low, a wave of shame washing over him.   
  
_ I can't do this. I can't risk harming her... not like this. Not when it's meant to be a pleasurable experience...Oh, sweet Maker! Why couldn't anyone have told me what to do? Prepare me for this important rite of passage instead of throwing me into the deep end without caring if I sunk or swam? _ he gnashed his teeth together, hands flying to his temples.   
  
"Please, Shayla... I can't do this. I can't... I can't risk hurting you. I-I'm sorry!" he gasped, voice croaking as he struggled against his body's angry screams at being denied the release it so desperately longed for.    
  
Brows knitting together, Shayla sat upright, smoothing out the creases in her dress. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was clear sparks were not about to fly between them tonight. Even so, she wasn't angered over the fact. He simply looked out for her best interests, wanting to ensure the experience was pleasant enough for them both. It was so sweet of him to consider her feelings in all this, to express such concern for her comfort and wellbeing. If Shayla were a weaker woman, she might have even cried over his consideration.   
  
"It's alright, Alistair. We don't have to do anything tonight if you don't feel certain." she whispered reassuringly as she pulled him into a hug. "The last thing I would want is for you to feel uncomfortable."   
  
"I'm sorry...I'm such a disappointment..."   
  
"Hey!" Shayla snapped, her eyes glinting in the dying glow of the fire's embers; "There'll be no beating yourself up over this, okay? If it didn't feel right for you, it didn't feel right. No harm done, sweetie. I'm not getting choked up over it."   
  
"You're-you're not mad?" he whispered softly, his eyes heavy with regret; "I'm not going to wake up tomorrow strapped to a tree in some remote part of the woods without any pants on?"   
  
"Only if you're into that kinda thing!" Shayla chuckled, nudging his nose with her own. "It's fine. Really. I promise I won't tease you mercilessly for this."   
  
"Your thoughtfulness is truly touching.." he murmured dryly, tilting his jaw to plant a chaste kiss upon her lips. She giggled softly against him, holding him tight as she deepened it just a little, her teeth catching his bottom lip to give it an impish nibble. He moaned helplessly against her but didn't pull back, addicted to that intoxicating, unknown taste of her that was twice as strong as her scent.   
  
How he wanted to drown in that sweetness, to be lost in her for infinity, no more cares or worries tying him down or heaping stress upon his overburdened shoulders. Alistair's hands cupped her jaw firmly, his fingers weaving through the thick, glossy strands of red hair as his mouth moved feverishly against hers.   
  
  
_ Note to self: Don't get used to this-! _   
  
  
Just as the thought registered in his head, an almighty crash shook the very foundations of the little shack, startling them both. Before they even had a chance to right themselves, the unforgiving glare of a lantern shone in both their faces, swiftly followed by the sound of throaty laughter.   
  
"Here, Raymond! We've got ourselves a couple of teenage love-birds!"   
  
**"Shiiit...** " Shayla groaned, her stomach clenching into a tight knot as two heavily armored knights burst into the room, each brandishing their swords in a threatening manner.   
  
"By the Maker, some people have all the luck...!" A second knight's voice-Ser Alec in fact- was high and nasally, permeated by a grating laughter that sounded like nails on slate. Alistair grimaced, scrambling to get his tunic back on.  _ Of all the knights, in all the windmills, in all of Redcliffe...! _ he thought in exasperation, his cheeks burning with the indignity of being caught in such a compromising position.   
  
"Put your weapons away..." Shayla said irritably, smoothing the train of her dress; "We were just leaving."   
  
"Oh, yes.." the reedy, dark haired knight sneered, lips curling over a mouthful of yellowed teeth; "You certainly looked set to head back to the Chantry." He emitted a barking chuckle, causing both teens to cringe at the sound.    
"I certainly hope your little liaison proved  **stimulating** 'cause believe me, the last thing you'll be doing tonight is squealing with pleasure!"   
  
"I'm so thrilled.." Shayla drawled, arching an eyebrow as she nudged Alistair towards the door, only to be stopped by Ser Raymond, who smirked wickedly, his eyes drinking in the sight of the young half-elf's physique.   
  
"You look awfully familiar, girly." he hissed in a low, rolling drawl; "... **Yes** , I remember. You're Eloise's daughter, right?" he chuckled darkly, both hands gripping the door-frame, blocking their escape.   
"Like mother, like daughter, hmm? Entertaining the men folk in the old mill-how sweet of you to uphold the family tradition!"   
  
At this, the rage she had been drowning in Dwarvian fire water for the better part of the day came rushing back to Shayla in full force, her face draining of all color as her lips curled into a snarl.   
At her sides, her hands clenched into fists, the slanderous insult cutting her like a knife.   
  
"Go die in a fire, Raymond- **UGHH!!** "   
  
Before she could finish her sentence, she was practically knocked sideways by the brutal force of one heavy, steel-coated hand slamming hard into the right side of her face. Stars exploded before her eyes as she fell to the fur-lined floor, shocked and caught off-guard by the dirty strike.   
  
Alistair cried out in alarm, attempting to run to her aid only to be shoved roughly to the ground by Ser Alec, who restrained him effectively by jamming one of his heavy splint mail boot hard into his spine, causing the young teen to let out an ungodly wail of agony.   
  
"Surely I can find a better use for that succulent mouth of yours.." Ser Raymond rasped, dragging Shayla to her feet by the neck as his hands clenched hard around it. She gasped, choking for air as he wrenched her head forward, bearing down on her until they were virtually nose to nose.   
  
Squirming under Ser Alec's boot, Alistair clawed wildly at the vile knight, his hands flailing hopelessly in mid-air. " **L-Leave her alone, you bastards!** " he yelled out, only to be rewarded by a swift kick to the head.   
  
"Dendrick sends his regards!" Ser Alec sneered, taking his foot off Alistair's back to flip him over with a rough shove of the toes. The sandy haired teen gasped, coughing up a mouthful of blood as his vision blurred, a kaleidoscope of circles whizzing past his eyes.   
  
"Let... go...of...me...!" Shayla gasped, struggling to breathe as Raymond's fingers threatened to crush her windpipe, laughing sarcastically all the while. When she thought she might yet pass out from lack of air, his hand slackened sharply and she crumpled to the floor, eyes watering from the horrific sensation of asphyxia.   
  
Before she even had a chance to draw in half a lungful, she felt the sickening crack of a rib breaking as the burly knight drew back his leg and kicked her hard in the torso. She couldn't even cry out, utterly winded and as she desperately clawed the floor in a bid to scurry away, the pain could only get worse.   
  
Reaching down to fist a clump of her hair in his metal-clad hand, Raymond cackled loudly as he watched the blood roll down her lips, savoring the sound of her choking on the dark liquid that spewed up from the depths of her gut.    
  
"Not so gungho now, are you, little bitch? Maybe this will teach you not to speak out of turn so hastily in future!"   
  
Watching as the red-haired Elf slumped to the floor, Alistair blinked back against the pounding in his skull, crawling with great difficulty across the pelts to grasp at her hand. He looked at her with terror in his eyes, unable to speak from the dizziness. Her eyes met his for a brief moment but she could barely recognize him through the bloody haze.   
  
As one final anguished cry torn free from his lips, eyes rolled back and she surrendered to the evil darkness...   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
_ "Can't you do  _ **_anything_ ** _ right, you wretched girl?!" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Shayla winced, face wrinkling as the shrill voice stung her sensitive ears. The sound seemed to come from all around yet she could find no source in the darkness. Not that she needed to see the owner of that horrible, judgemental voice to know who owned it. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Forgive me, mother. I know not what I do..." Shayla croaked, her voice sounded much younger than her eighteen years. This bewildered her, forcing a crinkle in her brow and her hands to raise to her face for a closer inspection. She grimaced in disgust.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The hands of a child. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ So,  _ **_this_ ** _ is to be the memory of the day? Beautiful. Have me knocked seven ways from Sunday and throw in the sound of mother's incessant screeching to add insult to injury... lovely..! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "You fool! Do you have any idea how much I paid for that bottle of Orlasian cognac you just spilt all over the floor?! You good-for-nothing waste of sperm and egg! Bend down and lick it up this instance!" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ No. Go away, you utter horror of a woman. Let me die in peace! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Bring me that footstool, brat. I will not stand for your insubordinate behavior! Now, kneel!" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Shayla gasped, the sensation ripping through her like a thousand daggers. A supernatural force burst through her entire body, robbing her of breath as it forced her to kneel down in the darkness, unable to see the floor. _ _   
_ _ An unseen pressure exerted itself on the back of her skull as she lay trembling in a heap, forcing her head down to the point where she feared her skull would cave in completely. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ No! Stop! Leave me alone! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "I'll put manners on you yet, mutt. By the maker, I swear it!" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Then the lashes started. Raw, biting pain ripped at her shoulders, causing her to scream soundlessly in the abyss. The crack of an unseen whip echoed in the darkness and as Shayla lay curled in a fetal position, her entire body shook with the intense and blinding agony. _ _   
_ _   
_ **_Stop! Stop! Please! Father! Father, help me!_ ** _   
_ _   
_ _ "I'm sorry, sweet Shayla... but I have to go...it is my duty as a warrior of the Dalish." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ As suddenly as they'd started, the intensity of the pain stopped with stark abruptness, the whip cracks replaced by the far off, distant voice of her father.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Getting shakily to her feet, Shayla stood unsteady, her toes curling with anguish. Her arms splayed out in front of her, searching fruitlessly through the darkness to find the source of that gentle voice-the only kind sound of her tumultuous youth. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ No! Please don't leave me! You're the only one who can protect me from her anger! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Forgive me, my child. I am needed in Antiva." _ _   
_ _   
_ **_I_ ** _ need you, father! Please! Take me away from this wretched place! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Be strong, my love. Be brave. I love you." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Father!  _ **_Father!!_ ** _   
_ _   
_ _ The voice trailed into the shadows, the echoes fading until there was only silence once more. Quivering with fear and anguish, Shayla slumped to her knees, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as her eyes frantically scanned the inky blackness for that soothing face. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Please...! Come back! Come back to me! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The pressure returned, pulling her head back hard enough to force a sickening crack from her vertebrae. An invisible hand curled around her jaw, squeezing it tightly as some unseen horror forced its way into her mouth. She gagged, attempting to recoil from the vile sensation as the unseen vermin violated her throat, her scalp burning as the invisible hands tightened over her scalp. She wept silently, her mind conjuring up the words to the Canticle of Andraste. She chanted them repeatedly, over and over and over again, desperate to distract from the torture. _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _ 'And there I saw the Black City,  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Its towers forever stain'd, _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Its gates forever shut. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Heaven has been filled with silence, _ _   
_ _   
_ _ I knew then, _ _   
_ _   
_ _ And cross'd my heart with shame...' _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _ Shayla... _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _ Shayla...! _   
  
  
"Shayla!"   
  
**"Shayla!"**   
  
Her eyes flickered, ears pricking as the sound of someone calling punctured her eardrums. She tried to open them but found only pain at her futile attempts. Something soft brushed her hand then, followed by a weighted sensation somewhere near her left hip. Heavy arms coiled around her then, holding her tight as the taste of salt flooded her senses.   
  
"Sh-Shayla..! Please wake up! For the love of Andraste, please wake up!"   
  
"A..lis...tair..." her voice was a tiny rasp. It hurt to breathe.   
  
With great difficulty, she managed to force an eye open. The move made her cry out with pain but she soldiered through her, attempting to sit up. Those same heavy hands that had moments before held her so tightly now moved to her shoulders, pushing her back against a mass of pillows.   
  
"Easy! Don't aggravate your injuries!" the young templar cried, his voice high and shaky as he pulled a sheet up to her neck.   
  
"What... happened...?" she managed to force out, liquid pain burning through her chest. She watched Alistair suck in a deep breath, his expression morose.   
  
"I can't remember much myself... only that I passed out a moment after you. When I woke up, we were both in the infirmary, though I can't recall how we got here." he cleared his throat roughly, a hand reaching to push some hair off her face. 

"Are you...alright?"   
  
"Don't worry about me, my love. Aside from a broken nose and a sore head, I'm fine. You on the other hand... well, it was touch and go for a bit. I swear, when I first saw you lying here, my heart just about stopped."   
  
"That...that bad, am I?" Again, she attempted to sit up but this time, a violent firestorm burning deep inside her lungs stopped her dead in her tracks, forcing her to gasp in pain.   
  
"Try not to move..." a new voice joined the room, belonging to a male that Shayla couldn't see. "You broke a  **lot** of ribs rubbing those knights the wrong way.."   
  
"It's not like she  **provoked** them, Joaquin!" Alistair spat in anger; "Those bastards were waiting for an excuse to fight!"   
  
"Well, whatever it was that transpired that night, it doesn't matter any more. The important thing is that this poor lady recovers in time for Gregoir's arrival. I doubt very much the Knight Commander would appreciate an audience with an invalid-"   
  
"Shut your mouth, mage! I won't have you talking about her like that!"   
  
"Then maybe you should stop getting my name wrong,  **templar** . It's Jowain. J-O-W-A-I-N. Got it memorised?!"   
  
A low groan resounded from the injured Elf girl. She tried to swat at the men with her right hand but found it tightly bound in a splint that hung from an elaborate pulley system over the bed.    
  
"How long was I out?"   
  
"Two days." Alistair said gravely, the words weighted with sorrow; "It was...lucky the mages arrived early. If they hadn't..." he trailed off, bowing his head low as he sat, staring at the bandages winding around his bruised fingers. He could hardly bear to look at her in her current state.   
  
Ser Raymond had really outdid himself in giving her a thorough beating. From what he'd been told, Alistair was horrified to hear of her injuries- reading as a list longer than his arm.  Four broken ribs, a punctured lung, skull cracked in three places, two fractured eye sockets, a shattered arm, one broken ankle and a hopelessly bruised pelvis.   
  
He winced at the thought of that last injury.  _ If I ever get my hands on that piece of utter scum...! _ he thought murderously, hands clenching painfully into fists as his body shook with suppressed rage. A deep frown marring his face, Jowain placed a hand on the young teens shoulder.   
  
"Calm yourself. You're no good to her in an agitated state."   
  
"What the  **bloody** hell am I supposed to do,  **Jowain?** You can't expect me to stand aside and let those sadistic bastards get away with knocking her into next Tuesday!"   
  
"That's  **exactly** what I expect from you, Alistair." Jowain said darkly; "You are just one apprentice against two seasoned brutes with broadswords. It's not a fight you can win on your own, man. Just..just calm down and stay with her. The last thing she needs is to worry about your sorry behind."   
  
  
Vaguely aware of the two men arguing, Shayla felt a horrid wave of nausea and pain surge through her.  _ The healing spells must be wearing off... _ she thought exhaustedly, whimpering as a dull ache resounded between her thighs. Her face contorted in a grimace.   
  
_ It felt all too familiar...   
_   


* * *

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

  
Though the fact only prolonged the inevitable pain, Alistair was grateful for Jowain's timely arrival. 

  
It had been a gigantic stroke of luck that he was in the nearby area, heading back from a trip to Denerim's marketplace after stocking up on rare herbs, roots and other apothecary-related sundries intended for use at the tower of Lake Calenhad. The well stocked but under-skilled Chantry sisters could do little but call for his services and whilst irate at having to make a swift detour, the dark haired mage indulged their cry for help.    
He worked fast, skilled hands hovering over Shayla's broken body as he gently brushed away her injuries, the smell of lyrium and Elfroot permeating the air.   
  
A few hours had passed by in the sparsely populated infirmary and whilst the more grievous of her injuries had been expertly patched, Shayla was still very weak from her ordeal. She lay in bed, half-buried under a mess of freshly cleaned cotton blankets, still feeling various aches and pains about her person as the multitude of healing spells cast upon her worked at repairing the breaks in her ribs, ankle and arm.   
  
Ever present, Alistair barely left her side, his face gaunt and pale as the worry was plain for the whole world to see. He blamed himself for her sorry state.  _ If only I hadn't passed out... I could've fought them off, bought some time so she could escape... _ he mused darkly, his brow set in a frown as he looked upon her.   
  
The health poultices had done a fine job at repairing the fractures in her eye sockets but they did little to dispel the angry purple bruises that marred her pale flesh. Combined with a number of small scratches, scrapes and lacerations, her face looked rough and embattled, even in sleep.    
He sighed deeply, a hand reaching out to gently trace his fingertips over her jawline. He could feel the contrast- once smooth, the flesh of her cheek was now uneven, bumpy and covered with scabs and knots of stitches.    
  
He winced to himself, brushing over the split in her lip. She would be left with a multitude of scars for the rest of her life, no question about it. Alistair's heart lurched. He cast his mind back to that night, ignoring how it all went wrong to focus only on the good: the warmth of her skin, the coitish fluttering of her eyelashes, the steady beat of her heart against his.   
  
He closed his eyes, remembering the sweet taste of her lips as he committed it to his memory.   
  
Who knew when he'd ever experience it again? He knew once she was healed, once Gregoir finished up whatever business it was that was delaying his arrival, that she would be taken from him.  She would be sent, like countless other young women of the Chantry, off to that dark, forbidding tower set among the turbulent waters of Lake Calenhad. A prison in all but name.   
  
A lump formed in his throat at the thought.  _ This isn't fair.... _ Alistair mused quietly to himself, his fingertips trailing down her jawline to caress the nape of her neck-marred by a ring of angry purple bruises. She moaned softly in her sleep at his touch, a crinkle forming above her nose as he touched upon a tender spot.   
  
_ Just when I thought I'd finally hold your heart... it's snatched away so cruelly... _   
  
"Ahh, young love..." Jowain drawled, watching the scene as he leaned against a nearby stone column, brows knitted over a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. His voice was low, vaguely sympathetic as he set his book of soothing spells down on the bedside locker and seated himself upon one of the stools surrounding his hapless patient.   
"Such a shame that it must come to an end all too soon."   
  
"As if you could possibly understand what we're going through!" Alistair replied curtly, lips curling unfavorably as he glanced upon the healer.    
  
Grateful as he was for Jowain's timely assistance, there was no shaking the fact of the matter: as a trainee Templar, it was long instilled in Alistair's mind that mages were not to be viewed as allies but as potential threats and whilst he bit back much of his teachings for Shayla's sake, there could be no swaying his ill-informed opinions. But it wasn't just the Templar propaganda that bugged Alistair.   
  
Something about the mage did not sit well with the blonde Templar and as he watched Jowain conduct a brief check of Shayla's healing injuries, his instincts told him to be wary.   
_ This man is not to be trusted... _ he thought, exhaling a sharp breath through his nostrils;  _ Call it instinct, call it a hunch: this man is not your ally.  _   
  
"She appears to be over the worst;" the dark haired mage said simply, ignoring the snappy retorts and pulling Alistair from his myriad of dark thoughts. "...Though I dare say one more night's rest wouldn't hurt."   
  
"Mmhmm..." Alistair nodded once, his eyes following Jowain's.    
  
Sensing the tension, the world-wary mage pursed his lips, arms folded across his chest.   
"You know, considering that I more or less saved your girlfriend from bleeding to death, you have a  **funny** way of showing your appreciation..."   
  
"Don't get me wrong. I appreciate your help immensely;" Alistair's voice was cool; "But the fact of the matter is this:  **You** are a mage. I am a Templar, or at least, will be in another year or two.  I was taught to look upon your sort with suspicion and whilst you've given me no reason to hold you in ill regard, know that I have my eye on you always because frankly, I _don't_ trust you."   
  
Jowain chuckled mirthlessly, clearly used to this sort of misguided attitude.   
"Well, I admire your honesty, Alistair. Do tell me, though... once the girl undergoes her initiation and becomes one of  **my sort** ," he emphasized the words with a dubious display of quotation fingers."...Will you still look upon her with such reverence?"   
  
"I-!" Alistair's jaw slackened slightly as the sudden realization hit him. "I never thought of that..."   
  
"Why am I not surprised?" Jowain murmured with sarcasm. Shaking his head, he gathered up his equipment, vials and bags of dried herbs and crossed the room in three short strides.    
  
"Not everything is as black and white as you have been led to believe, Alistair. If you view life with open eyes, you will broaden your mind."   


* * *

  
  
A full four days had passed since the brutal attack on the two teens and whilst the atmosphere was subdued so as not to further aggravate the battered young Elf, there was no stopping the inevitable flow of gossip from permeating the air. Although virtually comatose for most of her time in the infirmary, Shayla was a stubborn woman at the core of things and against both Alistair and Jowain's wishes, was up and walking on the fourth day, albeit gingerly.   
  
"For Maker's sake, Alistair! I'm not a child! I can cut my own slice of cake, thank you very much!" she growled irritably, scowling as the sandy haired teen took the small knife from her hand and cut out a large wedge of Brecilian Forest Gateau from the sizable mound sat before them.   
  
"I'm not letting you lift so much as a little finger! Not until I know you're one hundred percent healed. It's my fault you got hurt in the first place, so the least I can do is make sure you're-" Alistair started but was cut short by the pained expression on her bruised face. Face contorted with worry, the young man gasped, pushing the plate aside to rest his hands anxiously on her shoulders.   
  
"Sh-Shayla! Are you alright? Tell me where it hurts-!"   
  
"Enough." She hissed through her teeth, temper flaring as she turned from his concerned gaze. "It's bad enough feeling this way without you bending over backwards to redeem yourself for a sin you never committed." Taking up her fork, she stabbed into the lump of chocolatey goodness with more force than was necessary. "Stop blaming yourself, Alistair. What's done is done. No use crying over it."   
  
"B-But...! Shay! I..." Alistair sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "If I don't look out for you, then who will? Andraste's tears, if only I were stronger. Then you wouldn't have had to suffer such horrific injuries and-"   
  
"I said  **'enough'** , Alistair. Honestly, I'm so sick of being treated like a paper doll." she muttered, angrily chewing on a lump of cherry-infused sponge cake. "You can't always be there to protect me from every knight that wants to give me a once over. The sooner you wake up and realise that, the better."   
  
"So, what? I'm supposed to just stand aside and let them  **rape** you?!" he spat, aghast, his eyes wide with a combination of anger and alarm. "If you think for one god-damned minute I'm going to lay down and let you take a beating-"   
  
"Well, you already saw to that, didn't you? One kick to the head and bam! Out like a light!"   
  
"That's not fair! I was overpowered-!"   
  
"Fair?  **Fair?!** Oh, I'll tell  **you** about fair!" Shayla's voice rose in pitch, her pale eyes blazing with fury as they bore into the young Templar.    
  
" **You're** not the one who has to give up her entire fucking life so as not to scare the sensitive little children!  **You're** not the one who has to leave all her friends behind, all she's ever known for the last eleven god-damned years in favor of being locked away like a dirty secret in a tower of no escape!  **You're** not the one who has to live with the burden of being the runt of the litter, to endure all the lies, the names and the slander about who you are! You say life isn't fair? Hah! Your life is a fucking  **bed of roses** compared to the bullshit I've had to put up with so please! Spare me the sob story for I've enough of my own to last three lifetimes without you adding fuel to the fire!"   
  
Face draining of all color, Alistair swallowed back a lump in his throat. He recoiled from her then as though she'd just slapped him across the face, his eyes wide and aghast over her harsh words. He breathed in slowly, averting his gaze to the swirling patterns in the grain of the wooden table.   
  
"So, that's how it's going to end, huh? You're going to leave six years of friendship hanging on a note of bitterness, is that it?" his voice was low, cracking slightly as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. He wanted to believe it was shock talking, that the events of days past had frayed her nerves so completely she was lashing out simply out of fright, but the malice in her voice was so strong, so forceful that he just couldn't convince himself.   
  
He shook slightly as he pulled his chair out, standing up abruptly as he moved to take his leave from the kitchens. "I... I may not have gone through the same hardships you did, Shay.." he said softly, avoiding her gaze; "...But I always listened. I was always there for you, through the good times and the bad. If you want to throw that back in my face, so be it, but if you think I'm going to just give up fighting for you, you can think again. As long as I'm still breathing, I'll keep on fighting."   
  
Shayla winced, regret already stinging her senses. His words were soft and non-threatening but she'd known Alistair long enough to know when he was struggling to hide his anger. Inwardly, she kicked herself so being so scathing towards him when he was only trying to help. She had not meant to sound so malicious, or to verbally chew him out but as flashes of her ordeal bombarded her with sickening images that were too close for comfort, it was getting harder and harder to keep her temper in check. She hated it- hated feeling so vulnerable and weak, especially around him.   
  
_ Shayla, you bitch...! _ she thought morosely, feeling hot tears stab at her eyes. The salt burned at the tender flesh of her bruised eye sockets and she hissed through her teeth, roughly brushing away the anguish with a frenzied swoop of her hand.   
  
"Alistair, I'm sorry-!"   
  
"Save it. There's nothing left to say."   
  
The finality of his words cut the young half-Elf like a knife, stinging so intensely she couldn't help but let out an anguished sob. Watching as he crossed the floor towards the door, her heart lurched deep inside her chest. She wanted to call out to him, to reach out and embrace him and take back her cutting words but her blasted pride all but rooted her to the spot. Clenching her eyes shut, she tried desperately to keep the tears from falling but it was useless.   
  
"I'm scared...!" she croaked, her voice wavering as she clenched her hands into fists by her side. It was maddening to be caught in such a state, to be so openly weak and unguarded like this. She detested the feeling of exposing her soft underbelly, so used to the hard shell she had encased herself in that it had become a second skin. She bit down hard on her lip, ruing the day she had given into her urges so easily.   
  
Her teeth gnashed against the thick scab clotting in her bottom lip, causing it to burst open and leave a sickening pool of blood dribbling down her chin. The pain was pliable but at that moment, she didn't care. It was nothing compared to the pain of seeing the back of him, stiff and stoic, as he walked away without so much as a backward glance.   
  
_ Alistair...! Forgive me... _   
  
  


* * *

  
  
The sun was setting low over the hills of Redcliffe when the mounted convoy appeared at the town gates.    
It was an imposing sight to behold. Among the four-strong crowd of splint-mailed knights seated atop silver-coated Orlaisian trotters, a fierce-looking black stallion stood out from the others, far larger and more lavishly decorated with contrasting ribbons of red and gold weaved expertly through its' fetlocks.   
Atop an elaborately embroidered saddle sat a heavily armored knight, his face marred by a life of war, stress and unhealthy living.   
  
His brow was set in a scowl, further emphasising the deep-set creases on his forehead as he looked down from his mount with disdain at the small crowd that had gathered in the courtyard of the village Chantry.   
"Quite a turn out, if I do say so myself. How quaint..." the knight mused in a bored tone of voice, watching as the young red-haired Elf limped across the cobblestones, propped up with a makeshift wooden crutch.   
  
She glanced up at the middle aged man, her face baring the sorrow of a woman who had quietly come to accept a cruel fate. 

"You must be Gregoir, I presume?" Shayla croaked, her voice raspy from having spent most of the day weeping. The knight arched a brow, unimpressed, and nodded, motioning for one of his bodyguards to help the girl up onto his steed.   
  
"You presume correctly, my dear lady. Tell me, how did you come to injure yourself?" the knight-commander queried, shifting so she could better manovre her aching leg onto the saddle in front of him, a low hiss rising from her throat as the action aggravated her wounds.   
  
"Oh, I won't bore you with the details, good sir." Shayla breezed, fixing her face in a crooked grin, not wishing to expose the seering agony that ripped through her chest. "Just a silly old tumble. Nothing to worry about." As she rested against the taunt leather saddle, hands curled in the horse's ebony locks, her eyes searched the crowd of well-wishers and fellow Chantry alumni for the only one that mattered.   
  
Alas, Alistair was nowhere to be found.    
  
Shayla swallowed back a dry sob, her lip quivering with remorse.   
  
She had hurt him deeply, no question of it, but deep down in her selfish heart, she had hoped he would at least be kind enough not to punish her so completely by missing her departure.   
The thought of ingraining his face on her memory just one last time before she left was all that steeled her through the long hours of the morning when she had packed up her few possessions, preparing for the longest journey of her life.   
  
Her hand curled around the amulet that nestled against the soft line of her bosom.    
It was the same phoenix-shaped amulet that had arrived only days beforehand and whilst dubious of its' origins, Shayla felt it was only appropriate to wear this strange new trinket as she set off for lands unknown. The cool, lyrium-infused silver felt smooth against the rough skin of her hand and as she cast a final look upon the quaint little building she had long regarded as home, a tiny piece of her soul was left behind as she readied herself for the long road ahead.   
  
"Are you ready, dear lady?" Gregoir snipped, jolting her back to reality as he gave a small tug of the reins, forcing his horse to back onto the dirt path leading out of town. Shayla nodded, swallowing back the tears as she averted her gaze down to the fine silk ribbons weaving through the stallion's lustrous mane.   
  
"Ready as I'll ever be..." she whispered, defeated.   
  
  
"Shayla!"   
  
At the sound of her name, the young Elf's head snapped up. Glancing over the crowd, she caught sight of Jowain rushing down the stone steps of the Chantry entrance, obviously flustered, his face red with exertion. As he clambered onto a nearby horse, seating himself behind an exasperated looking knight, his breath came in ragged bursts as he moved to fish something from the pocket of his robes.   
"Alistair wanted me to give you this..." he gasped, holding out a small square of brown parchment as he leaned across to reach her.   
  
Frowning, Shayla hesitated at first, unsure of herself before sighing and taking the parcel from his outstretched hand. "Why couldn't he give it to me himself?" she choked, casting Jowain a pleading look. The dark haired mage smiled wistfully and shook his head, catching his breath.   
  
"He said it was too painful, watching you go. He...he said he didn't want his last memory of you to be an unpleasant one. I tried to reason with him but he was...  **stubborn** , to say the least."   
  
"Heh. Sounds like Alistair alright..." she chuckled weakly, hand curling around the little parcel. Pinching a corner between her thumb and index finger, she deftly unwrapped the small object within.    
  
A small gasp escaped her lips: nestled atop the crinkled paper, what appeared to be a small length of rope stared up at her. On closer inspection, she realized that it was actually a length of Alistair's sand-colored locks, styled into a simple braid, the ends tied with pieces of black leather cording.   
  
"What an  **odd** parting gift.." Gregoir mused, peering over her shoulder. A helpless laugh escaped the young elf, her fingers curling gently around the little braid to lift it to her face. As the wind picked up, she breathed in the scent of those silky, wheaten locks.   
  
Like a bowl of strawberries and cream.    
  
Sweet and delicate, just like him. She smiled then, clutching the braid close to her chest, her eyes scanning the little piece of parchment for any other lasting remnant of him. Nestled in the creases, she found it. The note was short but sweet, written in his familiar, lopsided handwriting.   
  
_ "Because I can't very well cut my heart out of my chest, here's a little piece of me to carry with you wherever the wind may take you. Know that you are always in my heart, mo shíorghrá .  _ **_-A"_ **   
  
" _ Moh sugar-ura? _ ? Is that Elvish?" Gregoir queried none-too-subtly attempting read to the chicken scratch handwriting in indelible black ink upon the parchment. Frowning slightly, Shayla tucked the note into the pocket of her skirt, flushing slightly. As if she would ever divulge the meaning of those sweet words to prying eyes. Their meaning was private, heartfelt and beautiful and as she mulled them over quietly in her head, they soon drowned out the sound of hoof-falls on the cobblestones as the convey rolled out towards Lake Calenhad.   
  
Casting one final glance at the town she had called home, she called out to the approaching night, vainly hoping he would hear her words on the wind.   
  
" _ Slán, Alistair milis. Go dtí seo chugainn gcasfar le chéile sinn ..." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last line translates to: "Goodbye, sweet Alistair. Until next we meet ... " in Irish.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

  
_ Sweet, merciful Androste! Kill me.. kill me now! _   
  
Shayla winced, inhaling in a hiss as she gingerly swung her legs over the taunt, muscular back of the stallion. She could feel her hips pop uncomfortably as Jowain lifted her delicately from the knight-commander's steed, eliciting a pained whimper from her as the actions did little to dull the wretched ache in her pelvis.    
  
It had been a long and brutal journey from Redcliffe and after having endured close to a full day on galloping horse back, it would be a gross understatement to say that Shayla now held much contempt towards the blasted animals.    
  
"Forgive me.." Jowain simpered, easing his hands from her waist as he helped her down. "I should've procured a side saddle. Can you walk?"   
  
"Planning on carrying me over the threshold, are you?" the red-haired Elf muttered sarcastically, eyes narrowing as she snatched her crutches from the mage's grasp, shoving them under her arms and balancing her weight awkwardly. "How cute. Thanks all the same, Jowain but I think I can manage on my own."   
  
"Alright..." the dark haired mage eyed her with caution; "...but don't come crying to me if you do yourself damage in the long run. I didn't use up a month's supply of Concentrator Agent just to see my hard work squandered by your pride."   
  
"Your concern is so  **touching** , Jowain..."   
  
"Enough." Gregoir's voice was low and gruff, clearly irritable from the arduous journey. He scowled down at his two wards, a crinkle appearing above his nose as he spoke with a commanding bark; "Take her to the women's quarters and see that she sleeps through the night, for tomorrow, we must prepare for the Harrowing-"   
  
Jowain gasped, his eyes widening to saucers. "What?! So soon?! Gregoir, have you lost your mind?!"   
  
"Do not question my actions,  **mage** ." The knight-commander sneered, his mouth a thin line as he cast a venomous glare at Shayla.    
"Our forces are stretched to the brink as it stands. If we are to have any hope of sending a sizable army to defend against this Blight, then a sense of urgency is of the utmost importance. If she is to be trained in the arcane arts, then we must first test her mettle by laying down the gauntlet. If the outcome proves... **favorable** , then I shall know with certainty that she is worthy of the cause."   
  
"Favorable?" Shayla said in a bemused tone, an eyebrow arching in distaste; "Let me guess, this  **gauntlet** of your will most likely involve unspeakable horrors, crippling pain and pointy objects aimed for my jugular?"   
  
Gregoir emitted a haughty sniff. "For the most part, yes."   
  
"Huh. Must be Tuesday..."   
  
"Oh, good." Gregoir drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm; "Another joker in our midst!"   
  
Clearing his throat loudly, Jowain hooked an arm around the young woman's shoulders, leading her towards the two imposing steel doors that marked the entrance to the dark tower. He sighed deeply, wincing as a shrill whiny pierced the air, swiftly followed by the sound of rapid hoof-falls as Gregoir and his knights headed towards the dockside stables to lay their horses down for the night.   
  
"You really shouldn't be so glib with your superiors like that." Jowain said curtly, casting her a reproachful look. "If you're to survive in the Circle Tower, you need to understand that we take a decidingly dim view of tomfoolery. Back talk, foul language and unladylike behavior is generally frowned upon here. Always remember- this is not the Chantry. No allowances will be made for you."   
  
"I know all that, Jowain!" Shayla snapped with contempt; "You act as if I've never heard of the Circle's famed love of discipline. I know _exactly_ what is expected of me: sit down, shut up and don't upset the apple cart. As if I could  **possibly** forget such simple requests!" Adjusting her crutches, she pulled away from him, teeth gnashing with a combination of pain and indignity.   
  
Glancing up at the high arched door-way carved into the thick stone that formed the imposing tower that was to be her so-called 'home' for the rest of her days, Shayla could only swallow back a wave of contempt that threatened to turn the air blue. Her shoulders shook with barely suppressed rage as the thought of succumbing to the will of Circle left a vile taste in the back of her throat.   
  
All throughout the turbulent ride to the lake, she had mulled over every possible scenario for escaping her fate. They ranged from the dubious-faking her own death by pretending to choke on a rock bun- to the utterly ridiculous notion of robbing a suit of armor and sneaking out with a convoy of templars on a scouting mission. As elaborate and ludicrous as her thoughts got, she knew that any attempt of escape would be a harsh lesson in futility.   
  
The tower was a veritable fortress, teaming with soldiers armed to the skin of their teeth and powerful adversaries who could more than likely shoot the wings off a flea with a lightning bolt from a mile away. What possible hope could she have of ever evading capture? Even if she was able to stun a couple of foot soldiers long enough to get across the river, she knew that she would ultimately be hunted to the farthest corners of the Earth, her status as an apostate condemning her to a life of forever living in the shadow of the Circle.   
  
Shayla sighed deeply, chewing on her mangled lip.

  
_ Damned if I do, damned if I don't. _   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Sniffling for the upteenth time, Alistair forcefully swallowed back the lump in his throat as he lay atop the stiff mattress in the farthest corner of the male dormitory. It was a small mercy that the other boys about the Chantry gave him space to grieve but it didn't make the night any less lonely.   
  
He cursed himself for his foolishness. The last time he might ever seen her face and he stood back, letting her go without ever once uttering goodbye or parting on a bittersweet kiss.   
  
In the still of the night, the noises beyond the Chantry gates seemed amplified somehow, filtering in through the cracks in the masonry until they grew into a cacophony of noise, a crescendo that buzzed relentlessly through the young man's skull until he could only cry out in anguish.   
  
His entire body ached with grief, crying out for the warmth of her skin and her feather-lithe touch as he recalled how her fingers would tangle in his hair, her lips imparting soft words of Elvish to calm his restless spirit.   
  
An entire day had passed since he heard the hoof-falls fade into the distance, the sound further emphasising the pain behind his ribcage. A tiny sob escaped his lips at the notion of never seeing her again and as his hands fisted in the sweat-soaked sheets, he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.   
  
_ Please, blessed Androste...! Don't let me forget. Don't her face fade from my memories for they are all I have left...!  _   
  
He inhaled with much effort owing to the vice-like grip that all but choked him of air, breath raspy from all the hours he had spent curled on his cot sobbing. Shoulders heaving, he pulled himself upright and raked the back of his hand over his crusty, red-raw eyes. The tears had long since dried but he could still feel their ghosts trailing down his cheeks.   
  
There was no escaping the fact.    
  
She was gone, wrenched from his life by forces far beyond his control.    
  
Alistair pulled his knees against his bare chest, his fingers raking through choppy, uneven locks of hair. Only the previous day he had sat on this same bed, dagger in hand as he carved off that one lonely tuff at the back of his skull- the infamous "mullet" that she had so playfully ribbed him over.   
  
Twisting it into a braid, he had tied each end with a length of leather cord.   
  
Appropriate, given the circumstances.   
  
As much as he had longed to join the crowd at the gate, the thought of watching her go proved far too painful to bear and so it was with a heavy heart that Alistair sent Jowain to relay the message. He could only speculate on whether or not she had received it but he tried to remain optimistic. As he rocked slightly, his mind too alert to even contemplate sleeping, he wondered if she too was being kept awake by the sorrow of their parting.   
  
Was she thinking of him, he wondered? Maybe even lying on a bed of silken sheets, her fingers curled around that little piece of him as she held it to her bosom, her face flush with pleasant dreams?   
  
Alistair exhaled in a low groan, chewing on his bottom lip. Only hours had passed since he last set eyes upon her, yet here he was, wide awake at some unfathomably early hour of the morning, face etched with intense worry for her welfare.   
  
If he couldn't make it through one night, how could even begin to cope with the weeks, months or years that lay ahead without her there to guide him? His fingers curled hard around a handful of hair, pulling it desperately in a bid to distract from his dark thoughts.   
  
"Maker have mercy...!" he hiccoughed, teeth gnashing together as he fought back an urge to scream with frustration. Wrenching the sheets off himself, Alistair stood up unsteadily and strode across the dormitory, unable to take the stifling atmosphere for a second longer.   
  
He yanked the door open none-too-gently, not caring who was woken by the unforgiving screech of the rusted hinges. Making his way out into the dark corridor, his bare feet made no sound on the smooth granite slabs as he walked aimlessly, no idea of where his feet might take him.   
  
It was against the rules to be out of bed after hours like this but it was of little consequence to the young templar. Compared to the searing pain that made his entire body lurch, the threat of a cane across the shins was an empty one.   
  
Thunder crashed outside, flashes of white lightning occasionally flooding the hallway with dazzling brightness for a few short seconds. He could hear the rain clattering in the gutters, see it pelting against the windows. Normally, he found it calming to listen to the sounds of nature when he couldn't sleep but there was to be no happy reprieve from the gloom that hung over him like a winter's fog.   
  
Rubbing his temples in a vain bid to soothe the ache in his head, he shuffled along in silence, gaze fixed firmly at the floor. Before he knew it, he was in front of the heavy oak doors leading out into the courtyard, beyond which lay the town square.   
  
It would've been so easy to just slide the bolt across, push open the door and run into the eye of the storm. As he stood before the entryway, eyes running over the swirling embellishments in the wood, he thought back to the nefarious escape plan Shayla had half-heartedly suggested.   
  
It would've been so simple.    
  
The stables were located just beyond the marketplace, in a field at the edge of town. He knew from spending three days a week as a stable boy that the equestrian master would be long asleep by now, slumped in his chair inside the farrier's store with an empty bottle of firewater at his foot.   
  
All he had to do was run, to get past the knights stationed for the night in the town square long enough to sneak inside one of the six stables. Procuring a worthy steed was no problem for they were all well used to his presence-it was just getting the chance to bolt from the yard that was the problem.   
  
Without realising his actions, his hand slid back the heavy bolt of the door, pushing it open a crack to peer out onto the square. It was dark outside, the rain coming down in thick droplets that made it hard to discern the landscape. Squinting slightly, Alistair could just make out the shape of two knights seated by the fountain, the rain rattling off the thick iron plates of her armor, no doubt causing a great deal of irritation as the noise penetrated their helmets.   
  
The young templar-in-training sucked in a breath, tasting salt on the wind. Whilst he bore some proficiency in the art of combat tactics, Alistair quietly cursed himself for not paying more attention to the lessons on stealth. He would need to keep to the shadows if he was to have any remote chance of succeeding-a difficult task considering how the lightning would blast away his cover without a second's notice.   
  
_ I have to try.. _ he thought, brow furrowing as he glanced up and down the hallway.  _ For Shayla's sake, at least. _ He exhaled through his nose, tossing his nerves aside as he pushed the door further ajar, ears pricked as he listened out for any sound of footsteps along the corridor behind him.   
  
Confident he was not about to be detected, he took a cautious step into the rain. A startled gasp almost shattered his quiet resolve, the icy droplets of rain stabbing his bare shoulders like thousands of tiny knives. "Shit..!" he managed to croak, mentally kicking himself for not thinking to grab his heavy cloak off the end of his bed.   
  
It was too late for that now, though.    
  
After that first step, there was no going back.    
  
Bracing himself for the onslaught of torrential downpour and the biting cold of the wind that howled through the trees, Alistair took another timid step forward and let his body adjust to the sudden drop in temperature.   
  
He could feel his teeth begin to chatter as the chill penetrated him to the core but he shrugged it off, wrapping his arms tightly around his frame as he powered through the ice and ran full tilt down the stone steps, not stopping until he'd come to the high arching wroth iron gates that separated him from his freedom.   
  
He let out a low groan, the sound lost in a crash of thunder.   
  
_ Locked. Figures...  _ he grumbled in irritation, wishing ruefully that he had a set of picks on his person. Crouching down on his haunches, he studied the gap between the gate and the gravel path. It was far too small for a baby to crawl under, much less a strapping six foot something juvenile delinquent such as himself.   
  
A dead end.   
  
Batting the droplets from his eyes, Alistair crept along the length of the perimeter wall, searching for another way out. Feet scraping against the cobblestones, he moved quickly, keeping to the shade of the apple trees as he maneuvered himself around to the back of the gardener's shack.   
  
Ever watchful of potential threats or captors, the young man shimmied along the rough wall, hands feeling around against the age-old plaster until he could grasp a door-handle.    
  
Giving it a rough twist, he gave a silent thanks to the Maker when the door opened smoothly, allowing him to step inside the run-down little shed and escape the rain, if only for a moment or two.   
  
Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed a heavy woolen blanket from a pile in the corner, wrapping it tightly around himself to shield against the cold before he reached for one of the wooden ladders resting against a dusty wall of cobwebs.   
  
Tucking it under one arm, he grabbed an axe-normally used to chop firewood- from the small workbench that took up most of the space in the shed and without bothering to close the door, rushed back into the downpour, his determination heartened by the small stroke of luck.   
  
He worked quickly, setting the ladder against a spot along the wall that was barely visible from the road. In seconds, he had swung his legs over the thick stone blocks, dropping into the alleyway behind the Chantry with all the grace of a three-legged cat.   
  
As he stumbled, finding his footing on the slippery cobbles, he ducked quickly as the sound of hushed voices rang through his ears. Keeping back firmly pressed to the wall, he watched as several knights passed by, chatting animatedly about the weather and generally bemoaning the idea of being placed on night-shift.   
  
"...God, I'd kill for a flagon of mead right about now!" one of them moaned, absently twirling his sword like a baton in his hand as he walked alongside a senior knight in light splint mail who was beginning to resemble a drowned rat.   
  
"It isn't even dawn yet and you're already jonesing for some alcohol! No wonder your wife left you!"   
the elder man sighed with exasperation, brushing water droplets from his closely shorn hair.   
  
"Shut your gob, Jory! Not my fault I married a money-grubbin' harlot..."   
  
As the voices faded on the wind, Alistair slowly peeked his head out of the alleyway. The knights soon disappeared around a corner and out of sight, giving him enough time to sprint the short distance to the blacksmiths. Melting into the wall, he breathed hard and fast, heart hammering in his chest with a mixture of fear and excitement.   
  
This could very well be the dumbest thing he'd done in this life up to this stage, including that one time he ate a lump of three month old Stilon on a dare. A grimace flashed across his face at the thought of that one glorious weekend he'd spent crying into the toilet.    
  
Good times.   
  
Fingers clenched around the handle of the axe at his belt, he gave a quick sweeping glance up along the square. Apart from a lone knight catching forty winks against the Chanter's board and the occasional stray cat, there was no other movement to be wary of. Alistair tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders, intent on one last dash sprint to the stables when a deafening crash of thunder made his heart jump up into his throat.   
  
"YAH!" he cried out, eyes widening as the sky flashed white and blinded him momentarily. He stumbled back, barefoot catching on a rock before he crashed to the ground.   
  
"It is not safe to be out during such a violent storm, young lad."   
  
At the sound of that deep, commanding voice, Alistair's blood ran cold.   
  
Staring up with horror at the tall, stocky figure, he tried to pull himself to his feet but found his body rooted to the spot with unflinching terror. The young man whimpered softly, recoiling as the figure bent low to see eye to eye.    
In the dim light, Alistair could just make out his face. Pointed, angular and sharp, it was the face of a man who looked as though he'd lost a staggering amount of weight in a short amount of time, the skin sagging over his bones, his eyes heavy set and sunken.   
  
"What on earth are you doing out so late? Are you trying to get yourself killed?'' His voice was low, more questioning than irate and as he helped Alistair to his feet, the young templar noticed that it was heavy with an accent he could not identify.   
  
"I-I...I'm sorry! I..!" Alistair simpered, trying to think of a good excuse for being out after hours without any shoes.    
  
The stranger shook his head, showering him with water that had pooled in the brim of a lavish leather hat that rested lopsidedly atop his head. As Alistair continued to glance upon the man with fear, he was startled to notice a pair of long, tapered ears peek out from under the folds of leather.   
  
_ An elf...? _ he thought in alarm, eyes searching the strangers face for any glimmer of recognition.   
  
The stranger watched Alistair with curiosity, mouth fixed in a thin line. Removing his hat, he revealed a sizable bald patch amidst a ring of long, tangled black hair that was flecked with shades of grey. Freed from the shadows cast by the elaborate headgear, Alistair saw that he bore a spiralling tattoo across the left side of his face, the blue ink faded with age.   
  
"No harm done. Just know better in future than to go on early morning strolls when the Maker vents her fury. Getting struck with lightning is not exactly the most pleasant of experiences..." the stranger said in a wary tone, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his long, billowing cloak, his expression one of fatigue.   
  
It was then that Alistair saw it.   
  
A tiny glint of familiarity in a stranger's face.   
  
His eyes-such a pale shade of blue they were virtually colorless.   
  
**Her** eyes.   
  
  
"Wh-who are you...?!" the sandy haired teen's voice rose by about four octaves, the realization stunning him into near silence. The stranger frowned slightly, deep wrinkles appearing in the papery skin of his forehead.    
  
"That depends... who's asking?"   
  
"A-Alistair..." the templar-in-training exhaled before he could stop himself, unable to tear his gaze from the man's face. The longer he looked upon it, the more he could see the similarities. The same heavy set eyes, the same slender nose, the same angular cheeks-yet the outline of his face was much more severe than Shayla's, no doubt due to the lack of human blood diluting the telltale hallmarks of Elven heritage.   
  
Upon hearing the young man's name, the stranger's face relaxed into a troubled smile. He placed his hands lightly on Alistair's shoulders, sighing deeply.   
"I take it then you are a student of the Chantry?"   
  
"Y-yes... why do you ask?" Alistair's voice was weighted with anticipation. If this man was indeed who he thought he was, perhaps he could help in aiding the rescue mission. Okay, so it was a long shot that he would be the proud owner of a majestic white horse but-   
  
"Surely you must know a girl by the clan name of Yelenei, no?" the stranger's voice was a hushed whisper but the look in his eyes was one of quiet hope.    
  
"I know a  **Shayla** Yelenei, if that's who you're l-looking for.." Alistair had barely gotten the sentence out when the man's grip tightened painfully on his shoulders, their faces inches from each other.    
  
"Please!" the man gasped, his expression frantic; "Take me to her at once!"   
  
A knot formed in the pit of Alistair's stomach as the pain of her absence surged through him once more. He averted his gaze, shrugging off the man's shoulders.   
"I'm sorry.." he whispered hoarsely; "...But the Circle has already claimed her..."   
  
"Then I'm too late..." the stranger sagged against a wooden post propping up the eaves of the blacksmith's roof, a hand flying to his mouth in anguish. "Her fate is sealed."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
The stranger visibly shook with pain, a strangled sob escaping his throat as he curled in on himself, not wishing for Alistair to see his tears.   
"Please... tell me she did not place the amulet around her neck!"   
  
"Amulet? What amulet-? Wait, did... did  **you** send her that box of trinkets?" Alistair queried in bewilderment, seating himself on the edge of the smelting bath, his face stony as he recalled the day he had first set eyes on the elusive Chantry courier and that small, lacquered box that his lost love had coveted so deeply.

He knew then that the amulet was something sinister but up until now, he had dismissed his fears as little more than weariness, born out of years being told to treat unmarked packages with great suspicion.   
  
The stranger nodded once, chewing nervously on his fingernails. Clearly, some habits were hereditary.   
  
"Si, that I did. I had hoped to intercept the package before it reached her but clearly, the Maker has a sick sense of humor."   
  
"Sir..." Alistair felt a shiver of fear ripple up his spine. "...Please. Tell me what in Andraste's name is going on!"   
  
The elven stranger cursed low under his breath, hands moving to fist in his hair as he paced with agitation. "She...She never told you about me, no?" he gulped, voice wavering with dread as he gauged the teen's reaction.   
  
Alistair shook his head. "No, not really. I knew she wrote to you on occasion but as far as I know, the fact that you never replied to her letters led her to believe you had died a few years back."    
His lip curled with distaste as he remembered how she had grieved for the man, how she carried the uncertainty like a dead weight around her neck.   
  
His silence had caused Shayla a considerable deal of pain and whilst Alistair shared in her grief, comforting her gently as the days rolled by without so much as a single word on parchment, seeing her father stand before him, alive after all this time... it left a bitter taste in his mouth.   
There was contempt in Alistair's gaze at that but he thought better than to voice it. There would time for an argument later-at least until he'd heard the stranger's side of the story at least.   
  
"You are sorely mistaken." the man chuckled mirthlessly; "Granted, it's not from want of trying, I can tell you that. Forgive me, I forget my manners at the best of times." He extended one long, bony hand in introduction. "My name is Javiar."   
  
Alistair did not accept the handshake. Instead, he brushed the grit from his blanket, folding his arms over his chest. "Well, now that we're acquainted, could you  **please** explain to me what  **bloody hell is going on?!** "    
  
Javiar winced at the sound of Alistair's shrill tone, his sizable ears twitching with discomfort.   
  
"Alright, I'll get right to the point: I fucked up."   
  
Alistair let out an exasperated growl.    
"Do elaborate..!"   
  
The elven man swallowed awkwardly, averting his gaze.    
"I.. accidently mixed up a package intended for a mark with a belated birthday gift. Now, whilst some Orlesian serial rapist gets to enjoy a  **lovely** set of handcrafted Antivan trinkets, my only child is trapped in that godforsaken tower with a cursed amulet hanging around her pretty neck."   
  
**"What?!** Alistair's brown eyes widened to saucers, the colour draining from his cheeks. "Cursed?! How-How did this happen?!"   
  
"Mistakes happen when people are so swift to achieve their goal. It was my fault for failing to pay proper attention to my duties but now..." Javiar chewed on his bottom lip, brows knitted with worry.   
His words were grim, weighted down with a horrid sense of dread.   
  
  
  
_"...Now Shayla must pay the price for my neglectance."_   
  
  


* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT** **  
**   
"Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him. So sayeth the prophet Androste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who brought the world to the edge of ruin."   
  
Standing in the cavernous hall, Shayla watched in silence as the mages recited the age-old ceremonial rites, their heads bowed in reverence. Fidgeting with the swirling ties of her newly acquired robes, she couldn't help but purse her lips as the words rang through her mind.   
  
_ I call shenanigans! Magic should be used to serve the greater good, even if it means taking control of those who oppose you.. _ she mused, a crinkle forming over the bridge of her nose. Her irritation was not solely based on her distaste towards the teachings of the Circle, shady as they may be. Fatigue played a large part in shaping her foul mood, having spent most of her first night too stressed to sleep.   
  
Sure as Androste willed it so, when she finally  **did** succumb to exhaustion and let sleep take her, she was rudely shaken awake by a lamp-jawed Templar and made to swiftly dress without so much as a mouthful of toast to recharge her batteries.    
Along with the prospect of more crippling injuries that were sure to be inflicted by whatever horrors awaited her in the Fade, it was safe to say that Shayla's surly demeanor was well justified.   
  
"We are ready if you are, milady."   
  
Jumping at the sound of the soft voice, Shayla snapped her head up, her gaze meeting with a pair of large, wide amber eyes. She flushed slightly, quickly rearranging her face into a weak smile as she felt them burn into her.   
  
"Ahh.. Cullen, right?" she queried, her steps quickening as he escorted her to the centre of the room.   
  
The Templar nodded, his ears turning scarlet. "Aye, that's my name." he whispered, averting his gaze to his shoes as they joined the side of Gregoir and several other senior mages inside a large, ritualistic pattern carved into the stony floor.   
  
"Nervous?"   
  
"Nah.." Shayla replied casually, crossing her arms over her chest and shrugging; "More anxious to get it over with than anything else. Is this going to take long? I missed breakfast and I could  **really** murder some cheese on toast-!"   
  
The sound of Gregoir roughly clearing his throat was the cue to shut up. Gulping, Shayla stepped into the centre of the circle, acutely aware of all eyes upon her. Flanking the knight-commander, an elderly man in elegant robes of purple and aquamarine stood with his arms folded behind his back, his face a sea of papery wrinkles as he cast her a wary look.   
  
"Let it be known that the Harrowing is indeed a most difficult task to undertake in the life of a mage." Irving's voice was deep and commanding, his eyes fixed firmly on the new initiate; "Deep within the Fade, demons lurk in the shadows, ready and willing to exploit your greatest weaknesses if you should let them. Keep your wits about you, girl. Things are not always as they appear."   
  
Exhaling the breath she never realized she was holding, Shayla nodded once, her expression stoic.   
"I'm ready for whatever the Maker throws at me." she said with determination in her voice.    
  
At this, Gregoir emitted a low snort of derision, the corner of his lips curling into a sneer.   
"Do not get cocky, mage, for arrogance has killed many a mage within the Fade. Know this, also." He squared up to her, looking down with distaste as she stood rooted to the spot; "Should you fail to conquer your demons, we templars shall perform our duty. You will be slain on spot."   
  
"Charming. Nothing like the threat of a gruesome death to start the day, hmm?" Shayla's voice was sardonic but it hid the underlying nerves that caused her fingers to twitch violently.   
  
She knew in her heart that she was not ready for this, that her body was still weak from her ordeal at the hands of the knights back in Redcliffe. Whilst she understood Gregoir's urgency, she also resented him for it. It was her one hope in coming here that she would at least learn to hone what few skills she already possessed before being thrown into the thick of things.   
  
_ Wishful thinking on my part... _ she mused darkly, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips as she moved a hand to thumb the ornate phoenix-shaped amulet that hung loose around her neck.   
  
Even in sleep, she didn't feel the need to remove it, the coolness of the silver pendant soothing her restless spirit just a little as it lay against the small line of her cleavage. Something about it brought a strange sense of calm when she wore it and so heartened by the calming chill that seemed to radiate from the core of the tiny orange gemstones, she worried that by removing it, the full extent of her dark thoughts would come rushing back in an overpowering wave.   
  
"Unless there are any further matters to attend to, let us begin." The impatience in Gregoir's voice was plain for all to hear and as he guided Shayla towards the bowl-topped plinth set dead centre of the ritual circle, she could've sworn he was being deliberately rough when she felt the jagged edges of his gauntlet press hard into her back.   
  
More words of reverence were spoken by the senior mages, during which Shayla was instructed to drink from the bowl of raw lyrium. Her nose crinkled at the harsh, sulphurous smell but she did as she was told, not wishing to incur any further ire from the knight-commander.   
  
The thick, gelatinous liquid burned her throat as she swallowed, a horrid tingling sensation trickling down to the depths of her stomach. The effect was almost instantaneous. Her vision began to blur, the outline of Cullen and the templars rapidly fading out of focus until all she could see was a blinding haze of white   
  
Shayla gasped, unnerved by the sensation and as the white swiftly faded into grey then black, she got the distinctive feeling she was falling...   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"If we leave this very minute, we can make it to Lake Calenhad before sundown!" Alistair offered, struggling to keep his voice steady as his fingers trembled around the mug of hot tea set before him.   
He watched as Javiar knocked back his second shot of whiskey, a grimace flashing across his gaunt face.   
  
"What's to say it'll already be too late by then? For all we know, she could be neck-deep in the Fade as we speak!" the elf sighed deeply, a hand moving to rub his temples as the pressure in his skull became almost too much to bear. Alistair could only watch, his face a vision of worry and concern as the man buried his head in his hands, emitting a low moan.   
  
The darkness had given way to dawn all too quickly, the hours passing by like minutes as the pair sat in the shadowy eves of the Chantry's mess hall. It took some swift thinking but Alistair had managed to convince the one bleary-eyed Sister at the door that Javiar was a weakened traveller in search of sanctuary, explaining away his reason for being awake so early as simple 'restlessness'.   
  
Not at all far from the truth, in all honesty. Since learning of the elf's grievous error, the last thing on Alistair's mind was catching up on his sleep. He took a long swig of his tea, brows knitted in worry as he mused over the newcomer.   
  
In the low light of the wall-mounted lanterns, he could see Javiar fully. He was a malnourished husk of a man, little more than a skeleton wrapped in crepe paper, by the looks of things. Even so, Alistair could tell from his gait, from the soundlessness of his footfalls that he was a formidable rogue-a point backed up by the ornate dagger dangling from his belt.   
  
Fingers tensing hard around the small mug of porcelain, ignoring the prickling heat of the liquid held within, the sandy haired teen could not stifle the growl in his throat. Javiar looked up at this, those pale, watery eyes full of hopeless regret.   
  
"How could you let this happen, Javiar?" Alistair hissed through gritted teeth, his jaw aching from the action. The elf exhaled deeply, fingers drumming across the tabletop with agitation.   
  
"I assure you, I did not do this deliberately. I would  **never** dream of causing my daughter harm-!"   
  
"Then why didn't you write to her? Let her know you were alive and well, for Andraste's sake?! Do you have any idea how many nights she spent crying out for you in her sleep, clawing at the sheets as though the Archdemon itself had her in its' grasp?" Alistair's knuckles were white around the mug, the porcelain cracking under duress.    
  
"Believe me, child! I  **wanted** to contact her so badly, to let her know that I would come for her in time but I couldn't... I couldn't risk giving up my identity! The Crows would have my  **head!** "  Javiar's voice cracked with the strain of his emotions but he steeled himself, not wishing to lose his composure before the teen.   
  
"Crows? What on earth are you talking about-?!"   
  
The elf sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, wincing as though he was suffering from a hellish migraine. "I take it you are not familiar with the work of the Antivan Crows. I already told you how the necklace was intended for a  **mark** , si? Well, my work basically entails killing people indiscriminately for large sums of money."   
  
**"W-what?!"**   
  
"You see now why I could not contact her. Never mind the notion of having a trained killer for a father!    
If those letters got into the wrong hands, my many enemies would've used Shayla's existence against me and that I could not stand for. I stayed silent in a bid to protect her, Alistair. You must believe me!"   
  
"You swore to keep her safe;" Alistair's words were weighted with a cold menace, his brown eyes glaring clean through the elf. "... Yet your actions may have condemned her to death."   
  
"You can't even  **begin** to imagine my remorse over my mistake. If-If I could turn back time and make it undone, you know I'd do it in a heartbeat. Alas, what's done is done."   
  
" **'What's done is done?!'"** **  
** **  
** **CRACK!**   
  
Chunks of porcelain shattered across the table, sending molten tea searing across Alistair's hand, burning deep into the fleshy palms as he hissed with pain. Throwing the ruined cup to the floor, he rushed forward, ignoring the horrid tingling sensation and grabbed Javiar by the scruff of his shirt, teeth bared with rage.   
  
"This is your  **daughter** you're talking about! Are you honestly saying that you're going to sit back and let her  **die?!** "   
  
"What else can I do, Alistair?" Javiar's voice crumbled as a sob forced its way up his throat; "Even if we were to get to Lake Calenhad in time, the curse would have overcome her. I can only place my faith in the blessed hands of the Maker and hope that she never puts it on."   
  
"So that's it?" Alistair's voice was shaking with fury; "You're just going to give up on her?"   
  
"I'm sorry...I'm so very sorry..!"   
  
Releasing the handfuls of grubby flannel, Alistair could only look on in disgust as the elf's resolve crumbled, causing him to slide from his seat and huddle on the floor, fingers clawing desperately at the slate as he succumbed to grief.   
  
  
**_"Into the Maker's hands, you commend Shayla's spirit... yet by doing so, you have forsaken her."_ **   


* * *

  
  
  
"Whu..." Blinking against the searing pain behind her temples, Shayla sat up slowly, shielding her eyes against the bright lights that bombarded her senses. The horrid, rotten-egg-like taste of raw lyrium still burned fiercely upon her tongue and as she gingerly got to her feet, her eyes scanned the unfamiliar scenery in search of a fountain or steam- **anything** that might cleanse the dire taste from her palette.   
  
Whilst somewhat familiar with the dream-scape she had occasionally visited during times of slumber, this part of the Fade was uncharted territory to the young mage-in-training. Great white trees stretched on to infinity, their monstrous branches curling into grotesque and fearsome shapes that cast bizarre shadows upon a ground of sulphurous yellow soil. It was unnervingly quiet, the silence deafening and as she took a few tentative steps forward, not even the sound of Shayla's foot-falls could penetrate the eerie stillness.   
  
She walked onward for an age, unsure of her surroundings as she urged herself to stay calm. There was a time and place for fainting out of sheer nerves and this certainly was not it. Walking through the ethereal mist that hung in the air, she gulped back a lump in her throat only to wince as the action served to further remind her of that disgusting lyrium taste.   
  
_ Suppose I'll have to get used to that in time... _ she thought morosely, folding her arms over her chest as she walked with a slow, ginger gait. Her hips still ached from her past ordeal but what was once a raging wildfire between her thighs had now died down to a few glowing embers.   
  
As she stepped over a particularly large tree root, a sound stopped her in her tracks. Tapered ears pricking at the noise, a knot formed in her stomach. It was a low, wet sound, mingled with a sickening crackle that could only come from flesh being torn from bone. Shayla had heard it only once as a child, when she had witnessed a pack of wild Mabari take down a hapless cow on the outskirts of Redcliffe.   
  
A wave of nausea overcame her then, recalling the eviscerated carcass that lay amid the wheat shieffs, the stench of blood and rotting entrails hanging in the air like an impenetrable fog.  Flattening herself against the broad trunk of the tree, she hardly dared to breath as the stomach-churning sounds reverberated through her ears.   
  
Whatever it was that was making such a racket could only be something big, bad and beastly.   
  
Sure enough, as she watched from underneath the thin veil of papery vines, a ripple of fear shot up her back as the creature came into view. It appeared at first glance to be a lizard of some sort., covered in hard, thick scales in such a dark shade of green they were practically black. Head a perfect dome, it consisted largely of teeth and as Shayla watched in revulsion, she could see pieces of tissue and sinew dangling from the pointed protrusions.   
  
"Ugh.." a hand flew to her mouth as the stench burnt her nostrils, filling her lungs with the ungodly scent of rancid meat. She tried hard not to gag but the overwhelming urge to vomit was far too great to contain and as she hunched over to evacuate her stomach, she inadvertently exposed the back of her neck to the feeding Gemlock.   
  
The blow knocked her clean off her feet.    
  
Landing in the viscous puddle of bile which she'd just chucked up, she gasped, winded as the beast towered over her, face affixed in a permanent grin of razor-sharp teeth. Before she could even react, it had her by the ankle, dragging her roughly into the centre of a vast clearing that was decorated with a mess of blood and viscera.   
  
All color drained from Shayla's face as she saw it.   
  
A vast horde of darkspawn- twenty, maybe thirty strong- heaving and pulsating like maggots in a barrel, all clawing, scraping and tearing at some unfortunate animal that had wandered so haplessly into its midst. As the Gemlock dumped the young elf in a heap next to a pile of bloodied animal bones, the horde turned in one collective movement, a sea of beady yellow eyes falling upon her, scanning her lithe body with unmistakable hunger.   
  
Shayla's heart was in her throat, hammering away at lightning speed. Fear seized her, threatening to paralyse her completely. Panting hard against the lingering sting of the monster's hand on her neck, she raised a pair of trembling hands over her head, attempting to channel her energy into a glyph of fire.   
  
Try as she might, only a tiny flicker appeared between her fingers, not even warm enough to dispel the icy chill in her spine.   
  
_ N-no! Of all the times to get stage fright! _ She thought frantically, gritting her teeth as she desperately tried to force her energy into her fingertips. It was useless-the spell would flicker and die against her palm, barely a spark igniting no matter how hard she concentrated.   
  
The horde descended on her in seconds, clearly sensing her inherent weakness as they tossed her to the ground as easily as though she were a rag-doll. She shrieked in terror, arms flailing wildly as the dark-spawn bit and clawed at her body, eager to taste the supple flesh within the flimsy cotton robes.   
  
Trashing against the mass of foul-smelling beasts, she tried to push them off but as she sat up with great difficulty, she could feel her head being yanked back none-too-gently as one of the brutish Gemlocks grabbed her by her plait. Shayla gasped, an anguished cry tearing up her throat as she felt hundreds of strands of hair being yanked clean from her scalp with a disgusting tearing noise.   
  
Gritting her teeth through the pain, she managed to land a punch on one of the monsters clawing at her chest, opening a large enough window so as to spring to her feet and run full tilt from the clearing. Any bravery lingering in her body evaporated as her feet pounded the dirt, horrified screams wrenching forth from her gut as she surrendered to the terror.   
  
Try as she might, there was no escape. At every turn, heaving crowds of darks-pawn thwarted her every attempt, backing her into a dark corner until they were literally breathing down her neck. Curling into a ball under the shade of a fallen tree branch, she cried out in horror, clenching her eyes shut and praying to the Maker that she'd soon awaken from this nightmare.   
  
_ Alistair...! Alistair, help me! _   
  
With abrupt swiftness, the horde backed down, the roars, growls and hisses dying away to a low grumbling as an icy chill suddenly penetrated the air. Alarmed by the sudden drop in noise levels, Shayla dared to crack one eye open only to instantly regret the decision.   
  
The reason behind the swift hush was all too clear.   
  
Standing in the middle of the clearing, flanked by several Lesser Shades, a figure rose up from the dust, stalking ominously towards its quivering prey. As it drew closer, Shayla could see that it was not like the rest of the horde. More humanoid in nature, it appeared to be of the female persuasion, resembling a slender woman in scant garments of a deep, rich purple.   
  
As it hovered ever close to the terrified elf's face, Shayla could feel its breath upon her skin. It was hot, heavy and smelt of fire, strong enough to make her gag.   
**"N-no...! P-please! I don't want to die like this!"** she choked, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as the demon raised one long, taloned hand to rake long, sharp nails along the contour of her jaw.   
  
Hearing her words, the demon smirked, leaning in until their noses brushed. Shayla shuddered, a jolt of revulsion surging through her.   
Before she could protest, the demon's lips were upon her, hands clenched around her jaw and holding the young elf captive as the unholy abomination delved greedily into her mouth with reckless abandon.   
  
Shayla bucked wildly against this unwanted intrusion, her screams muffled as the demon so wantonly violated her mouth. She cried, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to block out the horrid sensation, every fibre of her being desperate to drum up the strength to just clench her jaw down and bite off that wicked tongue.   
  
_ No! Please!!  _ **_No!_ **

Shayla tried frantically to twist her body away from the demon's amorous advances but it was a lesson in cruel futility. Her entire body felt as though it had turned to stone, completely paralysed by some unseen force that held her down, the pressure on her chest unbearable. She fought desperately, screaming against the hot mouth of the demon until she lost all breath, suffocating on that harsh scent of hell-fire that penetrated the very essence of her being.   
  
As the young elf began to succumb to the siren call, the demon swiftly drew back, her long, bony fingers sweeping over Shayla's cheeks in a caress that would have almost been loving had it not been so wanton.   
Gulping in lungfuls of precious air, the elf tried to move her limbs and scramble away but they were locked in place, little more than dead weights lying flat against the dirt.   
  
"Such pretty trinkets you wear..." the demon spoke in a low, husky tone, the voice clear as a bell.   
  
"Wh-what..?" By some miracle, Shayla somehow found the power of speech, her voice a high-pitched squeak; "Please... what..what  **are** you?!"   
  
The demon smirked wolfishly, showing a mouthful of pointed fangs, that damned tongue of hers sweeping over them slowly so as to make them glisten in the harsh light of the Fade. 

"That all depends on your outlook on life. I can be the harbinger of your most horrifying nightmares or.." she leaned down, brushing her lips across Shayla's in the ghost of a kiss; "..I can fulfill your wildest dreams. All you need to do is submit, child. Give yourself to me and you shall be free."   
  
"N-no!" Shayla cried, jerking her head back from the demon's touch with all the strength she could muster. "I will  **never** succumb to the will of a demon! Let me go! Let me go  **now** , goddamn you!!"   
  
Standing upright, the demon sighed theatrically, folding her arms across her ample bosom as she gazed with longing upon her prey.   
"Such a pity.." she purred seductively; "...And you had such potential!" Drawing back, the demon circled Shayla, the dark-spawn horde moving in to flank her as she stalked her prey, the monstrosities hissing and snapping as the young elf desperately willed herself to run.   
  
With a single snap of the demon's talon-like fingers, the horde pounces, a veritable blanket of pain and death as it tore apart Shayla's body. As she screamed and shrieked with agony, she could see the darkness drawing nearer. As she watched a river of blood flow free from her wounds, she cried out, one final time before the darkness took hold.   
  
_ Alistair... I love you... _   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Alistair winced as his teeth caught on the fleshy pad of his nail bed. With a rough jerk, he ripped the hangnail away, caring not for the mouthful of blood the action rewarded him with. The pain was insignificant compared to the crushing sensation deep within his chest.   
  
It had been little over a week since Shayla was sent to the Circle and not once in all that time had anyone cared to write, to inform him of her safe arrival. He had barely slept since Javiar first arrived and as he watched the elf pace up and down the cavernous male dormitory, it was clear to the sandy haired teen that he wasn't only one on tenterhooks.   
  
His heart lurched violently, the uncertainty maddening.   
  
He  **had to know** if she was safe, to know if she'd even gotten to the tower or had indeed succeeded in an elaborate escape plan. He had to know if she still had that cursed locket, if she'd worn it...he had to know if she was...   
  
He choked at the thought.   
  
_ I have to know she's still alive... _   
  
The door swung open with a creak, startling them both.   
  
Slinking inside, the courier was alarmed to find the two men waiting for him, an audible gasp reverberating around the room. Exhaling sharply, the hooded man composed himself, smoothing out his cloak before reaching into his leather satchel and producing a square of parchment. He glanced between the two men, the uncertainty in his face hidden by the shadow of his hood.   
  
"Which of you is Alistair?" he said warily, voice low and raspy.   
  
The knot in the young teen's stomach tightened uncomfortably as he slowly raised his hand, not trusting himself to speak. The courier nodded once, handing Alistair the square of parchment before once more delving his hand inside his mailbag. Fishing around for a moment, he produced a wrap of linen cloth, handing it to Javiar before he retreated once more from the room.   
  
"What does it say, Alistair...?" the elf whispered, barely breathing.   
  
Gulping back the lump in his throat, the teenager sucked in a baited breath, roughly tearing away the heavy wax seal and freeing the letter from the envelope. He unfolded it with urgency, his eyes scanning the neat, looping script with trepidation as he read aloud.   
  
_   
_ **_  
_ ** **_Dear Alistair,_ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_It my sad and solemn duty to inform you that one the morning of August 11th, your dear friend_ ** **_Shayla Ceres Yelanei passed from this world following a most unfortunate accident surrounding her initiation to the Circle of Magi._ ** **_  
_ ** **_At this current time, I am bound by Circle law not to divulge the details of this ritual but let me just say that mercifully, her death was swift. She did not suffer and for that, I am grateful. As per Circle tradition, her remains have been cremated and currently reside within the tower's mausoleum. If it is your wish, I will be more than happy to send them to you via knight-escorted courier so that you may carry out her final wishes pertaining to her mortal remains._ ** **_  
_ ** **_I extend my deepest and most heart-felt sympathies to you at this time of mourning._ ** **_  
_ ** **_May the Maker watch over you in your hour of sorrow._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Deepest condolences,_ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Jowain._ ** **_  
_ **   
  
Letting the letter flutter to the ground, Alistair slumped to the floor, his strength deserting him.With an anguished wail, he slammed his fists into the rough slates, hard enough to break his fingers and draw an ungodly amount of blood. Kneeling by his side, the item in cloth clattering to the ground, Javiar curled his thin arms around the boy, holding him in a bid to offer comfort as they united in grief.   
  
"Sh-Shayla--!" Alistair gasped, unable to breath from the choking sobs that wracked his body. Burying his head in the older man's chest, he muffled a deafening scream, his entire body burning with anguish as his heart shattered inside his chest. He convulsed with pained sobs, the tears flowing like a river, pouring down his face to leave tracks in the dirt.   
  
As the two sat huddled together, sharing in their sorrow, they were unaware of the soft glow, the dying amber light of that accursed locket lying broken on the floor...   
  


* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE ** **  
** **  
** **** **Eight years later...**   
  
The wind whistled through his hair as he stood upon the bridge, the sun sweating the back of his neck.   
He watched in quiet contemplation as the troops assembled themselves at the gates of Ostagar, ready and willing to face whatever unseen horror awaited them in the coming days. The tension in the air was palpable, a buzz of excitement overtaking the camp as warriors from the furthest corners of Thedas joined forces to combat against the Blight.   
  
As he absently thumbed the silver thimble pressing gently against his Adam's apple, Alistair closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of earth and sweat- the smell of impending war.   
  
_ What's taking you so long, Duncan? _ he thought quietly, a crease appearing between his eyebrows;  _ It can't take  _ **_this_ ** _ long to get back from Lake Calenhad...  _ He frowned, seating himself atop the crumbling stone as he reached into his ration pack and pulled out a squished cheese sandwich.   
  
As he took lunch, basking in the warmth of the mid-morning sun, Alistair couldn't help but worry over his esteemed mentor. It had been six months since the softly spoken Warden Commander had liberated him from the dark walls of Redcliffe Chantry, six months spent travelling up and down the country in search of new recruits to conscript to the cause. Two weeks prior to arriving at the ruins of Ostagar, the elder warden had received word of unrest at the mage tower, calling for his help in resolving the conflict and leaving Alistair to act as the reluctant leader to a band of merry-and, more often than not, drunken-men.   
  
The young templar took a sizeable bite of his sandwich, tearing into the soggy bread none-too-gently as that particular thought resounded in his head. He  **hated** that fact, that he was the one all the others turned to for help with even the most basic of problems.   
  
Since settling into the camp little over a fortnight ago, Alistair could barely find a moment to himself to collect his thoughts, yet in a way, he was glad for the chaos and mayhem. It offered a welcome distraction from a more pressing matter that weighed heavily upon his shoulders.   
  
_ Has it really been eight years already? _ he thought quietly, trailing his index finger across the little tube of silver tied to his neck with a length of brown cord. It contained a tiny piece of her-her ashes, to be precise- and as he dwelled on the significance on this otherwise ordinary morning in August, he could do nothing to ignore the sinking sensation deep inside his chest.   
  
Her ashes were still languishing within his pack, sealed tight inside a small, wooden barrel that had once housed a large quantity of cocoa powder. A wry chuckle escaped his lips at the thought of what she might think of this ludicrous interment.   
  
_ Most appropriate for a woman with such an inordinately large sweet tooth... _ he thought with a smile, wondering if she was perhaps looking down on him with much amusement over the makeshift urn.   
By all means, he could've just as easily left her remains inside the cold, soulless marble of the Circle-approved vase but something about having a constant reminder of her final moments did not sit well with Alistair.   
  
The Circle was behind her death, no question of that. She had died during some mysterious initiation ritual, the details of which were still unknown to Alistair even after all this time. Try as he might to find out what truly happened to his dearly departed friend, he could find no answers, Jowain's silence in the months following the arrival of the urn speaking volumes.   
  
Alistair sighed, wrapping up the last of his half-eaten sandwich and replacing it once more inside his ration pack before curling his hands around that little wooden barrel. He stroked the polished wood reverently, tracing over the embossed metal plaque that covered the lid.   
  
He traced her name in silence, swallowing back the lump in his throat as he willed himself not to cry. It still hurt to think of her, to know that never again would he hear her throaty laugh or the lilt of her voice when she sang old Dalish drinking songs.  _ She had so much more to give... _ he mused, retracting his hand from the bag and closing it over once more.   
  
_ Such a waste.. _   
  
"Ahh, Alistair! There you are!"   
  
Startled, the young templar sprang to his feet, hastily brushing lint from his splint mail as Duncan stood before him. The bearded man chuckled at his ward's flustered movements, clearly used to his childlike reverence at this stage.   
  
"By the Maker, you gave me quite a start!" the blonde gasped, forcing a wide grin.    
  
The elder man shook his head in amusement, clamping a hand to his shoulder.   
"Goodness, I'd hate to see your reaction should the Archdemon be so bold as to sneak up on you!"   
  
Flushing crimson, Alistair moved to adjust the collar of his undershirt, cheeks puffed slightly with indignity. "Ahhh, yes... anyways, I trust your business at the tower was successful?" he said casually.   
  
It was then he noticed that the Warden Commander was not alone. A small figure stood behind Duncan, swamped by a pale blue cloak that was far too large for any average sized human, flecked with dried in bloodstains. As he squinted, Alistair could not make out any distinctive features, the person's face obscured by the deep shadows cast by the hood.   
  
"That it has. If you would be so kind, perhaps you'd like to escort my latest recruit to the blacksmith and get her kitted out for the battle? I am afraid to say she lost one of her daggers fending off a Hurlock a few miles back."

"Not a problem." Alistair swung his backpack over his shoulder, smiling broadly at the newcomer; "Anything in particular you had in mind, dear lady? We have quite the selection of sharp, pointy things to satisfy your every dark-spawn-killing desire!"   
  
The cloaked figure appeared to raise her head but did not offer a reply. Stooping slightly, Duncan placed his hands on her shoulders, whispering in a voice so low the young templar strained to hear.   
After a brief moment, he turned back to the young man and smiled wistfully.   
  
"I must apologize on behalf of Miss Circe. Things at the Circle..." he chose his words carefully; "...were  **traumatic** , to say the least. She has barely spoken a word since I released her from Aeonar."   
  
"Traumatic?" Alistair breathed, glancing between the two. Beneath the layers of fabric, the newcomer turned roughly, unable to look at him as she wrapped her arms around herself, making her form all the more delicate.   
  
"Yes. That Jowain fellow you spoke of... turns out, he was a blood mage all along. This unfortunate young lady just so happened to be caught in his wake. Had I not been swift to arrive on the scene, she might still be languishing in that godforsaken dungeon..." Duncan said simply, his voice low and calm as always.   
  
The hairs on the back of Alistair's neck bristled at the news.  _ Jowain, a blood mage?! _ he thought incredulously, the color draining from his face;  _ I  _ **_knew_ ** _ there was something not quite right about the bastard...! _   
  
"I assure you, dear lady.." Duncan spoke politely to the young woman, ignoring the blonde's horrified expression; "You shall come to no harm on my watch. Alistair here will be more than happy to get you fully equipped for the fight ahead, though I dare say a hot meal would not go amiss either...that is, if he's left any food left for the rest of us!"   
  
"Hush, Duncan!" Alistair's cheeks flushed at the playful jibe. "There's plenty of broth to go around!" He then turned to the young woman, forcing a smile as he reached to pet her shoulder. "Come. The mess tent isn't far-"    
  
His hand had barely grazed the rough linen of her cloak when she jerked away from him, a gasp escaping the heavy folds of her hood as she flinched from under his fingers. Blinking, Alistair let his hand drop to his side, gaze adverted to his feet as he shuffled awkwardly.   
  
"Give her time, Alistair. Her experiences of Templars were ...not at all pleasant, to say the least." Duncan cleared his throat loudly, heading towards the stone walkway leading towards the southern side of the camp. "For now, I must alert the troops of my return and attend to some urgent matters in regards to strategy. I shall leave you to it, Alistair. Try not to kill each other."   
  
"Duncan! What kind of man do you take me for?" the blonde pouted, staring after his mentor as a wry chuckle hung on the air, soon fading into the distance as Duncan took his leave.   
  
Standing on the walkway connecting both sides of the sprawling Warden outpost, Alistair cleared his throat awkwardly and brushed imaginary lint from his shoulders. How did it come to this? Babysitting some hapless mage from that accursed tower- one that had been involved in aiding and abetting a blood mage, no less. Alistair couldn't help the glare of contempt from crossing his face.   
  
After Shayla's death, he had wanted nothing more to do with mages or the Circle Tower and even went so far as to refuse any interaction with the troops on the other side of camp. Of course, there would be times when it was inevitable that he would relay a message to the mages but he did so under much duress, not afraid to let the displeasure show in his face whenever he spoke with one of...  **those** people.   
  
Yes, his disregard for alumni of the Circle was no secret but he kept his more murderous thoughts under control, if only for Duncan's sake. The elder warden had sensed the anger in Alistair when he'd refused the blonde man's request to join him at the tower. Such an event would only lead to much pain and anguish on his part, accomplishing nothing but further misery with the added bonus of a nasty lightning burn for the boy's troubles.   
  
Exhaling slowly through his nostrils, Alistair urged himself to remain calm.

  
_ No use taking it out on a perfect stranger. He _ scolded himself, a hand moving to massage his temples.  _ It won't bring her back from the dead. _   
  
"Nnn..."   
  
He jumped at this, the sound so soft and tiny he wondered if she had truly uttered it at all. Peering down from his imposing height at the cloaked woman, he watched in wonder as her hands darted from the thick folds, moving to lower her hood. He saw her fingers were thin, covered in a mess of scar tissue and scabs, apparently wrapped in wafts of dirty medical tape, crusty with dried blood.   
  
Whether it was that of a dark-spawn she's slain or her own, he couldn't say. As the blue linen slid over her head, he could only watch in curiosity as the mage revealed herself.   
  
She was of elven descent, if the ears were any inclination. A sizable chunk was missing off the tip of her left ear, giving it a ragged appearance not helped by the assortment of silver hoops and studs that peppered the worn flesh. Her face was emaciated, gaunt from a combined lack of sleep and nourishing food and the lack of body mass seemed only to accentuate her sharp features, her jaw a pointed line. Her hair was cut close to her scalp, in a style Alistair recognized as an "Denerim crop" and as he took in the dull, muddy red shade of the wispy strands, a pang of longing tugged at his heartstrings.   
  
There was indeed a slight resemblance but he knew it wasn't the woman he longed for.   
  
_ Wishful thinking, Alistair... _ he mused, watching silently as she undid the heavy cords keeping the cloak secure around her shoulder. With a low thud, it fell to the ground and Alistair could only choke back a gasp. Her robes were almost black with bloodstains, some dried in, others still fresh and wet in places.   
  
The mage swayed slightly, unsteady on her feet but as Alistair extended his hands to help steady her, she hissed low through her teeth and batted them away, a furrow appearing above her nose. She glared at him as though he'd just uttered a most grievous insult and he saw for the first time, a variety of scars flecked across her face.   
  
Most of them appeared new and little more than surface scratches but a prominent silver line, extending from the centre of her brow, over her nose and stopping short of the right hand side of her lips, gave her a menacing edge that made her glare all the more venomous.   
  
"Don't touch me,  **templar!** " she spat, her voice hoarse and snake-like, rasping horribly as though she'd been gargling coffin nails. Alistair grimaced, unable to look away from her spiteful glare.    
  
"Ahh. I see you're one of  **those** mages. The sort who'd sooner set my britches on fire than look at me.  **Lovely...!** " Alistair drawled with sarcasm, rolling his eyes to the heavens as he folded his arms over his chest-plate.   
  
"Urgh..." she groaned, leaning up against a stone pillar for support as her knees trembled. Gulping back a wave of nausea, a hand flew to her mouth as she winced, eyes scrunching shut as she desperately swallowed back the taste of bile. Sneer dropping into a look of abject worry, Alistair rushed to her side, his fingers gripping her shoulders firmly, should she try to buck him off once more.   
  
"Where are you injured?" he was concerned but commanding. As she leaned up to cast him a rueful expression, Alistair failed to stifle the gasp that spewed forth from his throat.   
  
Her eyes.   
  
The color of aubergines.   
  
Such an unusual shade, even for an elf.   
  
"Leave me alone. I can take care of myself." she snapped, gagging slightly as she tried in vain to shrug his shoulders away. Composing himself, the young templar let a haughty sniff escape him before bending his knees and slinging her over his shoulders. The mage gave an almighty shriek of indignity, her small fists hammering at his shoulder-plates.   
  
**"You lamp-jawed son of a Nug fucker! Put me down this instant!** " she roared in his ear, straining against his iron grip. He winced at her shrill tone but rather than obey the devious voice in his head telling him to drop her down the camp's well, he simply grunted, a hand flying up to grasp the back of her neck. Placing two fingers at the base of her skull, just two seconds of pressure was enough to silence her protest.   
  
As the mage slumped unconscious against his broad shoulders, Alistair couldn't help the smirk cross his lips.   
  
"Thank you, Javiar..."   
  
  


* * *

  
  
"Urrrgh..."   
  
With surprising difficulty, Circe sat upright, wincing as a sharp twinge in her abdomen was aggravated by her actions. She groaned, more out of anger than pain, and rested up against the thin iron head-board. In the time between incurring the dreaded wrath of the Templar Sleeper Pinch and waking, someone had stripped her of her soiled, battle-worn robes, replacing them with swatches of gaze that stuck tightly to her bosom.   
  
Her lips curled over her teeth, a sneer crossing her face.  _ Bastard! Probably got his end in too, for good measure! _ Ignoring the pain her movements elicited, she wasted no time in plunging a hand beneath the sheets, feeling between her thighs for any signs of that tell-tale salty wetness.   
  
Nope.    
  
Dry as a bone.   
  
_ Oh, good. Looks like he'll only be getting a severe maiming instead of a brutal death... _   
Laying against the thin pillow, Circe stared up at the canopy ceiling before her, wondering how on Earth she'd reached this point. It had been little over a fortnight since she was exiled from her home, forced to walk with her head bowed in shame as her fellow mages pointed fingers at her back.   
  
It wasn't as though she'd  **willingly** aided and abetted a blood mage.   
_ How the fuck was I supposed to know that?! _ She thought in anger, punching at the mattress.   
  
She hardly dared to believe it.    
  
Jowain :softly-spoken, sardonic Jowain was, of all things, a blood mage. Even as she cast her mind back to the events of the weeks past, she refused to let the thoughts take root, so ludicrous they were that they couldn't possibly have any basis in truth. Yet no matter how hard she tried to dispel the fact, there was no escaping it.   
  
The blasted mage had manipulated her, playing on her good nature to further his own end.    
As she recalled the confrontation at the stairs to the tower's basement, the smell of blood still stung at her nostrils, further stroking the fires of the nausea in her gut. She thought of Lily, wondering perhaps if Gregoir have reneigned on his promise to spare her in exchange for Circe accepting her punishments.   
  
Two months she had spent in Aeonar, two months fighting off the advances of drunken templars, forced to fight among the malecefors and mutineers for those few precious scraps of bread and cheese.   
A shudder rippled along her spine as she mused on that turbulent period of her life, her fingers clenching in the thin sheets.   
  
_ What's the use in dwelling on such things? _ she said to herself, a low moan escaping her lips;  _ What's done is done. No used bitching over things that are beyond my control... _   
  
"And so, the sleeping dragon awakens!"

  
A chirpy voice called from the opening of the tent. Circe let a growl seethe through her teeth.    
_ Ugh. Not this jackass again! _ She thought with rage, fishing around on the floor for something large and heavy she could throw at him. Finding one of her boots, she punted it at Alistair's head as he strode towards the bed.   
  
Catching it in midair, the blonde man frowned darkly, seating himself on a nearby chair and glaring daggers at the irate mage. "I can see we're going to get along  **famously** ..." he said wryly, lips pressed into a thin line as he set the offending boot down on the floor.   
  
"If you think for one second I am to take orders from a  **templar,** you are clearly delusional!"   
  
"So say a privileged few..." Alistair retorted curtly, narrowing his eyes as he watched her wrench the sheets from her body, standing up abruptly.    
  
Clearly underestimating the severity of her injuries, she emitted a loud gasp, teeth gnashing together as she managed to swallow back an anguished scream.    
Frowning deeply, Alistair debated with himself on whether to let her suffer. She was certainly doing nothing to prove herself worthy of his help, that's for damn sure. Even so, as uncouth as this woman appeared, Alistair was not one to take delight in the sound of other people suffering and as he rose from his chair, he quietly berated himself over his chivalrous nature.   
  
Maker knew it never did him any favors when he tried to act tough...   
  
"For godsake, lie down! You won't be of much use if you pop your stitches!"    
  
"You can't tell me what to do!"   
  
"Um, actually, I can. As the right hand man of the Warden Commander, that makes me your superior. I'm  **ordering** you to get your stubborn, cantankerous arse back in that bed, shut up and stop making me want to reconsider my moral stance on hitting women."   
  
_ At least I can be  _ **_verbally_ ** _ demanding... _ he thought, a satisfied smirk crossing his face as the mage reluctantly sat once more on the edge of the bed, her face a picture of barely suppressed rage.   
Her fingers clenched hard around handfuls of fabric, her magenta eyes burning into him.   
  
"I could easily melt your face off, you know. Just you wait. First vial of lyrium I get my hands on, I will  **annihilate** you!"   
  
"Then I'll just have to keep that pesky lyrium on the top most shelf until you've learned to play nicely."   
  
"You're an asshole."   
  
"And you, my dear, are a complete and utter  **bitch** so consider us even!"    
  
Circe stifled the urge to scream in frustration. She had just escaped from a whole dungeon filled with idiotic, sniveling templars so the very last thing she expected to find upon accepting her conscription to the cause was the biggest idiot of the bunch leading the troops to battle. Sucking in a tense breath, she averted her gaze, glancing around in search of her clothing.   
  
"My robes?" she snapped, unable to hide her contempt. Alistair folded his arms over his chest, cocking his head to give her a reproachful look.   
  
"Are you going to play nice or do I need to pull more Templar mind tricks on you?"   
  
"Nice?" She sneered, her lips curling over her teeth in a disturbingly grim smile; "My dear boy, I play rough, I play hard to get, I play dirty... but I  **never** play nice."   
  
"I'd well believe it..." Alistair replied coolly, stepping past the bed towards a large white chest resting up against the far wall of the tent. Flipping the lid open none-too-gently, he rummaged around for a moment, trawling through the assorted miscellany of armor, gauntlets, helmets and other surplus supplies.   
Pulling out several armfuls of light leather armor, he dumped it unceremoniously at her feet.   
  
"There you go. Take your pick."    
  
The mage turned up her nose at the pile of armor, folding her arms over her bandaged bosom.   
A tinge of green flared up on her cheeks as though she might vomit but instead, a single word left her lips.   
"T-Thanks."   
  
Alistair arched an eyebrow, bemused.    
"Did you... did you just throw up in your mouth there..?!"   
  
"Little bit..."   
  
**"Charming...!**

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

  
"Ahh, you've found Alistair-"    
  
Circe let a snort of derision escape her nostrils.    
"Aye, if only he'd stayed lost." she sneered, folding her arms over her leather clad chest.   
  
Duncan sighed deeply, a hand moving to rub at his temples as his skull began to throb with the onset of a migraine. On several occasions throughout the course of the day, he'd had to step in between the feuding pair, breaking up their petty bickering, more often than not getting caught in the crossfire. After a strike of lightning had narrowly missed him by several millimetres, the bearded warden had all but given up trying to referee.   
  
Alistair gritted his teeth. "I think I liked it better when I thought you were mute.." he muttered darkly, glaring daggers at the acid-tongued elf.   
  
"Enough...!" Duncan groaned, wincing as his headache amplified; "You two need to set aside your differences if you are to have any hope of defeating this blight. The situation is dire enough without the added burden of fighting among the ranks."   
  
"She started it!"   
  
"Did  **not!** You kicked things off simply by being shat into existence!"   
  
"Shut up, you-you- witch with a capital B!   
  
" **Go die in a fire, you cheese-eating bastard!**   
  
"They fight like children...!" Jory said with a shake of his head, pursing his lips in displeasure. A rough chuckle resounded near him, followed by a playful dig in the ribs.   
  
"Soak it all in, daddy-o!" Daveth said chirply; "In a few years, you'll be privy to the joy of hormonally-fueled, rampaging teenagers!"   
  
"Urgh..!"   
  
Clearing his throat loudly, Duncan mentally counted to ten, closing his eyes for a moment before he let loose with a deep, bellowing cry. "By the Maker, I order you to stay quiet!" his voice boomed ominously, causing the pair to jump, stilling their childish taunting. Sucking in a breath, the embattled commander frowned deeply at his young wards, his eyes narrowing as his gaze cut clear through them.   
  
"I will  **not** tolerate this blatant insubordination. If you two cannot learn to work together and be civil, I shall have no choice but to remove my belt and believe you this- bad things happen when the belt comes off."   
  
Alistair shrunk back on his haunches, a grimace flashing across his face.   
"I'll be good!" he said quickly, the color draining from his face as he glanced upon the fearsome gryphon details of Duncan's buckle.   
  
"You can't  **possibly** expect me to fall in line behind this bumbling idiot!" Circe griped, nose crinkling in a deep snarl as she matched the commander's icy glare. "He'll lead us straight into the mouth of the Archdemon if given half the chance!"   
  
"Don't tempt me..!" The blonde haired warrior grumbled, earning a filthy look from the mage.   
  
"I really do not care for your petty feuding. We have much more important things to worry about at present so I would strongly suggest to  **both** of you that you keep your barbed insults to yourself. There is much work to be done and it can hardly be carried out when there is so much malice in the air." Duncan stepped forward, the hem of his armored kilt swishing with his movements as he roughly grabbed both Alistair and Circe's wrists .   
  
"I want you both to apologize to the other, shake hands and forge a truce."   
  
The red-haired mage glared fiercely at him, attempting to squirm from his vice-like grip.   
"And if I refuse?"   
  
"Then I shall be forced to introduce you to the gryphon of decency."   
  
Circe glanced briefly at the so-called belt he threatened her with. A wry chuckle escaped her lips, her fingers twitching his grip. "Like that pitiful strip of leather could possibly act as a deterrent. Let it be known, Duncan, that I spent the last two months languishing in Aeonar. Compared to the sting of the cat o' nine tails, your belt would be nothing more than a gentle caress upon my skin."   
  
"Is that so?" the bearded man said pointedly, his patience clearly wearing thin as a deep furrow appeared in his brow; "Then perhaps I ought to frog-march you to the other side of camp and have you made Tranquil? Perhaps then it might calm you down for once."   
  
Her smirk dropped into a thin line of contempt, jaw fixed in a hard line as she bit back the curses on her tongue.   
  
"Well played, good sir."   
  
Alistair emitted a triumphant chuckle, clamping a hand on Duncan's shoulder.   
"You got  **served!** "   
  
"Just for that..." Duncan said cooly, shrugging him off with a pointed glare; "...I'm revoking your treat rations for the next month."    
  
Alistair blanched, smile dropping into a look of abject horror.   
"Nooo! Not the cheese!  **Not the cheeeeese!** " the young not-Templar gasped, hands flailing wildly in panic. The commander rolled his eyes, chuckling in spite of himself. 

_When in doubt, threaten the cheese..._ _   
_   
"Not another word, Alistair. It is time I filled you all in on the mission ahead." The elder warden cleared his throat roughly, his neck cracking as he gave it a long-overdue stretch. "You are to enter the Kocari Wilds just outside our camp and retrieve certain documents pertaining to our cause. Also, I shall require several vials of dark-spawn blood."   
  
"Oh? Hankering for the mother of all Bloody Marys, Duncan?" Circe quipped, arching an eyebrow. The warden commander pursed his lips at this but did not dignify her jibe by responding to it.   
  
"As I was saying, you are to scout out the forest and search within the ruins of the old Warden Outpost.  It is my hope that those documents are still intact but if not, perhaps there will still be some items left that can be of use to the cause. Should you find anything that looks as though it might serve a purpose, by all means return it to camp. We are low on supplies as it is."   
  
There was some murmuring among the group. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Circe let her breath rasp through her teeth as she struggled to keep her voice calm.   
"Let me get this straight. You want us to go trapezing through an uncharted jungle full of wild animals, poisonous plants and things that would sooner eat our eyeballs for dinner all for a few sheets of parchment? What could  **possibly** be worth such a foolish endeavor?"   
  
"These are not simply parchments, girl." Duncan said curtly, irritation evident in his tone; "If my information is correct, it is possible that a cache of treaties from the last Blight still rests within those ruins. If that is true, then we can perhaps use those treaties to obtain additional forces and force a parley between the warring factions of Thedas. A worthier endeavor, I can think of none."   
  
"And if we all get killed or horribly maimed in the process?" Circe sneered.   
  
"It's a risk I'm willing to take."   
  
"Typical. Send a woman to do a man's job. Ugh. If anyone needs me-which I highly doubt-I'm off to find a puppy in need of a good kicking." With that, the embittered young mage stalked away from the bonfire, her boots crunching loudly against the ground as her steps swiftly retreated.   
  
"I think I need a smoke after that..." Duncan groaned, slumping against a stone pillar as he rubbed his aching forehead.   
  
"Is she always that fiery?" Jory queried as he fished a small wooden box from his backpack, opening it up to reveal it full of fragrant brown tobacco, a box of matches and a small clay pipe. As he took the smoking instruments in his hands and packed the little barrel tight, Duncan let a wry smile across his lips.   
  
"Not particularly. She was never this opinionated during our travels across the Imperial Highway. Like Alistair, I too believed the mage to be mute. I see now that she is most likely acting out of shock;" he lit the pipe with a flick of a match, sucking in a lungful of earthy smoke; "Certain events arose at the Circle that would've no doubt contributed to her demeanor. Whilst I do not tolerate her glibness, I understand the reasons behind it and thus, I implore you all not to take it to heart."   
  
"What on earth could've driven a woman to act so caustic?" Alistair said in a disgruntled tone, his brow crinkling. While he knew that there was indeed in-fighting among the templars and mages of Lake Calenhad, the blonde haired man doubted that was the only reason for the less than pleasant words she spat in his general direction.   
  
"I do not wish to fill your pious young mind with disturbing imagery, Alistair."Duncan said plainly, closing his eyes as he savored the rich, nutty tang of the smoke upon his palette.  "All I will say is that the templars of Aeonar are not fit to call themselves so. They have committed crimes that would shame their order, yet they conducted themselves so openly, so shamelessly before my very eyes that their sickening actions shall be forever ingrained in my memory."   
  
"Sounds like she's been through the ringer!" Daveth quipped, folding his arms behind his head as he cast his gaze towards the flames dancing in the centre of camp.

"Still, that's no excuse for acting like a pissy little diva. Woman's probably ridin' high on the crimson wave an' all...!"   
  
"What a charming mental image." Duncan said dryly, not bothering to crack an eyelid.   
  
Cocking his head to the side, his musings all but forgotten as he took in the dark haired rogue's words, Alistair blinked twice in confusion.   
"Crimson wave? What in the name of Andraste are you on about, Daveth?"   
  
"Crimson wave! Y'know, the blob? Having t'painter's in? Aunty Flo's come to town? Maker's breath, Alistair! Do you know  **anything** about women?"   
  
Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Jory stepped in to clear up the misunderstanding, shaking his head as Alistair's confused expression deepened.   
"What Daveth is trying to say is that he thinks she's on her period, which would explain the bitchiness, the general antagonism and contempt for all living creatures who possess a penis. Does that answer your question?"   
  
The blonde haired templar blinked, scratching the back of his head idly.   
"Uhhh....what...is a  **period** , exactly?"   
  
"Ugh, I give up!" Jory threw his hands up in annoyance whilst Daveth simply laughed himself into a coughing fit. Cracking a lid, Duncan couldn't help but emit a hearty laugh at his young ward's bewilderment.    
  
  
_"Oh, Alistair. Count yourself lucky that you remain in blissful ignorance...!"_   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Rotating her shoulder as she struggled to adjust to the feel of the thin leather armor that strained tightly against her small frame, Circe emitted a low groan as she felt her bones crack lightly, a dull ache throbbing in the tense muscle.   
  
_ The things I could do for a hot bath... _ she thought wistfully, conjuring up images of a glistening golden tub, filled to the brim with steaming water tempting her with warmth and relaxation, the scent of exotic oils and lotions heavy on the air.   
  
_ Mmmm. Yes. Want. _ She could not stifle the whine in her throat, brows creasing as the ever present reality dawned on her. It would be a long time coming before she ever had the pleasure of that simple luxury again, if Duncan's words were anything to go by.   
  
She sighed dejectedly, folding her arms behind her head as she strolled idly through the sprawling camp.   
  
A tinge of guilt stabbed at her mind, causing her to wince as she recalled her curt words and surly manner throughout the day. She had not meant to act so vindictive but it was a horrid, ingrained disdain towards templars that fueled her actions. Eight years of conditioning, of horrid circumstance and endless torrents of abuse from many jacked up foot soldiers had instilled in her a deep hatred of those blaggards.   
  
Circe knew better than to tar them all with the same brush but going by experience, she doubted she would ever meet one to dispel her inherent mistrust. Templars were no more than brutes in tin cans, drunk on power and an inflated sense of entitlement, or so she'd encountered.   
They cared not for her wellbeing or safety, concerned only about their own selfish, carnal desires, relentless in their pursuit of such ill-gotten gains.   
  
A shudder coursed through her as she tried to block out the memories, vomit threatening to surge up from the depths of her stomach. Two months she had endured their cruelty, laying flat on the rack and submitting herself to her fate. She had learned quickly that to fight was to fan the flames of their lust and so, she had swiftly learned to surrender herself to their rough touches, wishing to walk away with the bare minimum of bruises.   
  
Yet, for all that she endured, for all the pain and agony inflicted upon her, Circe found herself at odds with her emotions. Part of her wanted nothing more than to return to the tower, to return once more to the cold walls of that dungeon and incinerate every living thing within until it was nothing more than a smouldering pile of black ash.    
  
Another part, however, overrode her desire for revenge.   
  
It was a feeling that greatly disturbed her.    
  
One of lust, of craving.    
  
As much as she tried to deny the screaming inside her head, to block out that dark voice and pretend it didn't speak of such foul things, she was stricken with a sickening urge to submit herself to the beastly urges of the templars. She wanted to feel those calloused hands rake over her hips, pulling her legs apart to delve into her core and violate her senses.   
  
She wanted to be forced against the wall, a fist in her hair and her back painfully contorted as she was endlessly penetrated by a variety of unrelenting, savage creatures, her lungs burning as the screams mingled with pleasure and pain.   
  
She _wanted_ it.   
  
And it sickened her.   
  
Slumping against a large tree that hung near a low wooden fence, she sank to her knees, her former strength and bravado deserting her in droves. Running bandaged fingers through the thin wisps of her closely cropped hair, Circe buried her head in her hands, the shame weighing heavily upon her shoulders.   
  
_ What's  _ **_wrong_ ** _ with me...?! _ she gasped, breath unsteady as she fought back the tears ghosting behind her eyes. She scrunched her eyes shut, willing herself not to think on such things as she rested her back against the rough bark. Her hands reached behind her, tracing over the knots in the wood and scraping against the rough texture.   
  
Circe exhaled slowly, focusing on the feel of the tree as she stroked over the crumbling bark, her breath soon settling to a steady pace. Tilting her head back, she let it rest against the trunk and closed her eyes.   
Fatique was settling into her body in spite of the few hours she'd been incapacitated on a cot in the infirmary, no doubt from the fortnight spent battling her way along the Imperial Highway.   
  
How she got to Ostagar in one piece was anyone's guess, given that she was virtually catatonic from the events leading up to and following her imprisonment. Her fingers curled into fists as Jowain's blood-smeared face flashed into her head.   
  
He had been her only companion, the one with whom she shared her many burdens. He was the first to extend a hand when her tormentors kicked her legs out from under, the one to offer a comforting shoulder when she succumbed to the stress and anguish. He was the first one to make her feel almost...  **human** ...   
  
"Blasted mutt! Get back here now!"   
  
An enraged yelled forced Circe's magenta eyes to snap open, swiftly widening in alarm as the creature came barrelling towards her.    
  
**"Oooph!"**   
  
Before she had a chance to leap out of the way, the dog was upon her, it's muscular body knocking the air clean from her lungs as it smacked her hard in the torso and reignited the embers smouldering in her cracked ribs.   
  
" _Grah.. get...off me...stupid...fucking..!_ " she gasped, shoving against the hefty weight that pinned her against the tree trunk. Her futile requests were met with an eager series of slobbering licks, drenching her face in a thick layer of foul-smelling saliva.   
  
"What am I going to do with you, you bloody runt?! Always bolting at the first sign of trouble!"   
The kennel master grumbled irritably, sidling up to Circe and grabbing the unruly hound by the scruff of its neck. The dog let out a whine as it was pulled away, doleful brown eyes glancing up sadly at the winded mage.   
  
"You should learn to control your beasts. Damn dog could've easily ripped my face off!"Circe coughed, getting gingerly to her feet and brushing the hair off her armor, her lips pursed in annoyance.   
  
"Unless you attempted to swipe her marrow bone, I highly doubt it!" the kennel master snapped, giving the mutt a rough kick in the side with the toe of his boot. It let out a strangled howl, visible wincing and as Circe watched it cower under duress, a pang of guilt tugged at her heart.   
  
"Stop that!" she snapped, shooing the man away with her hands; "You're hurting her!"   
  
"So what? She's only fit for the slaughterhouse. Little coward runs at the first sniff of dark-spawn so what good is she to me other than a furry punch bag?"   
  
Fury bubbled in Circe's stomach but she restrained herself, if only so she didn't incur the wrath of Duncan's icy glare. She doubted he would appreciate it if she jolted some sense into the brutish thug.  Straightening to her full height, she glowered darkly at the kennel master, patting her thigh to coax the dog forward.   
  
"Everything has its' purpose in this world, even if it is not entirely obvious. Kick that dog again and I shall make it so the next hound you lead is a guide dog for the  **horribly eviscerated!** "   
  
The burly man let out a snort.   
"You're clearly mental if you think this dog's useful, but still, if it'll get you off my back, you can take her for all I care. I won't even charge you for it. She's not worth a pot of piss much less two coppers.."   
  
The dog glanced between the two warring humans, cocking her head to one side in a questioning manner. Emitting a low whine, she slowly inched towards Circe, her movements timid as she tucked her tail between her legs.   
  
"You  _ shemlens _ are so quick to judge..." she muttered darkly, clicking her fingers as she encouraged the Mabari to walk alongside her. "Perhaps you might benefit from looking into a mirror for once in your pitiful life..."   
  
Circle left the kennels with rage bubbling in her chest. If there was one thing she could not stand for, it was unjustified, senseless cruelty to animals. Heading in no particular direction, she walked aimlessly among the bustling camp, her curiously-coloured eyes affixed on the young bitch she'd just acquired.   
  
The dog didn't look in any way malformed or defective. A little on the thin side, sure, but apart from a few bald patches flecked throughout the inky black fur of her haunches, she appeared to be in reasonably good health.    
  
"I'm normally a cat person..." Circe said with a gentle chuckle, smiling as the dog wrinkled her nose at the comment; "...But for you, I'd make an exception. Do you have a name, pup?" she stopped in her tracks, stooping to check the hound's neck for any signs of a collar.   
  
Nothing but grubby, mud-stained fur cloaking thick knots of muscle.    
  
Chuckling wryly, the mage swept a hand across the hard line of the bitche's neck, her nails twitching slightly in an experimental scritch. The dog let a happy yap escape her lips, nuzzling against the gentle touch and panting softly.   
  
"You like that?"   
  
"Arrff!"   
  
"Heh. T'is endearing to know that a single comforting hand can dispel all that troubles you. Come along now, little doggy. I think you deserve a much needed treat, hmm?"   
  
The mabari yapped happily, the neat stub of her tail twitching with excitement and causing the young mage to let out a thrilling, hearty laugh. Clicking her fingers, she guided the dog along the path to the mess tent, unaware of the pair of dark eyes that followed her from the shadows.    
  
_ "Androste bless the outcasts..." their owner mused aloud, red robes swirling in the wind... _   
  


**FIN...FOR NOW...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all I have of this fanfic for now. Since my video game clients refuse to work properly on my laptop, I can't yet continue this story due to being unable to play the game. However, I'm leaving it open to a continuation in the future if I can ever find working copies of the games in question. For now, I hope you've enjoyed this latest addition to my unfinished works.   
> Comments, bookmarks, kudos and likes are all greatly appreciated.--
> 
> -SARAh


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